


King of the Woodland Realm

by shetlandowl



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, F/M, Gimli's mum is the only non-horse OC, M/M, There are going to be people who DO hook up who you wouldn't want to, There are going to be people you might want to hook up who don't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetlandowl/pseuds/shetlandowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young ducal heir to Erebor returns to Sherwood Forest to find his land and his people suffering under the capricious rule of the new Sheriff Smaug. A cautious lord would have minded his own business in the face of a militant Sheriff and his minor army of soldiers, but cautious had never been a word ascribed to the Line of Durin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1652: The Bane of a Young Lord

**Author's Note:**

> This fic gives new or non-canon names to two characters for the first half of the fic, and since it's an important part of the plot there is no fixing it. So! Remember this: William = Thorin, and Leif = Legolas. (Fili and Kili have their names changed, too, but since that's not really important to the plot, I clear that up almost immediately.)
> 
> And before I go any further - heartfelt thanks to my friends who read and talked through this with me to make sure no strings or marbles are lost.

It was the early hours of dusk on an unremarkable day when Lord Boromir departed Nottingham in haste. Two hooded riders followed him closely, obediently flanking the Duke of Osgiliath as they put Nottingham and the watchful servants of the Sheriff further behind them.

In the relative safety of Sherwood Forest, Boromir finally reined in his horse. The two riders beside him were less eager to comply, but eventually they turned their horses around to face their companion. Boromir waited, watching each rider in turn while offering neither affection of command.

The rider to his right was the first to yield. He threw back his hood and inhaled deeply, anxiety fading from his young face as a man resurfacing for breath. Whatever tension or fear had been on his mind was immediately forgotten, and he nearly leapt out of his saddle onto his more stubborn partner.

“We did it!” he cried, eagerly tugging the hood off his friend. The man he exposed had little interest in joining the sudden celebration; his gaze was unfocused, his thoughts distant and cautious. “William, what troubles you? Your plan worked: in and out of the city right under their noses, and in broad daylight no less! Even the gatekeeper did not stop us for papers on our exit.”

“We rode out with Boromir, Perseus bears his crest,” said William, slowly emerging from wherever his mind had taken him. “They would never stop a Duke for papers, Theodore.”

Perseus shifted beneath Boromir, growing anxious under his master’s rising frustration. When at length Boromir spoke, his calm tone offered little comfort, weighing heavy instead with the devastating power of a rising tide. “Am I to understand that you two halfwits abandoned your duties, vanished from your fathers’ lands, and without as much as a word you traveled through the Forest alone only to secret your way into Nottingham?”

William was unable to meet Boromir’s glare, but the slight bow of his head was enough. Beside him, Theodore shone with pride.

“Boromir, you should have been there,” he said eagerly, urging his dark mare forward with unseen commands. “None of the guards or townsfolk recognized us, we moved through the crowds as one of them! Had you only seen what William —”

Boromir raised one hand and silenced the young man at once. Theodore’s open expression welled up with bewildered astonishment, and William moved his mare forward to interrupt their silent exchange.

“Let us go home, Boromir,” he said calmly, smiling now as he held Boromir’s gaze without shame. “The night is not getting younger, and neither are we.”

“Especially you,” Theodore added with little thought, and with no less effort the heavy forest air echoed with the delighted laughter of the two young men. Together they circled their horses around and cantered onward.

It was not long before Boromir caught up, guiding Perseus between the two mares with ease. “Did you truly enter Nottingham unseen in broad daylight?”

Theodore laughed, clasping the Duke’s shoulder in excitement. “My friend, what a performance! For a moment I feared the worst.”

“I would never hurt either of you, Theodore,” Boromir sighed, though a smile was on his face. “Although we share no blood, you are brothers to me, and I will not see you harmed.”

“Harmed?” Theodore blinked, his expression pinched in confusion. “By the Heavens, Boromir, no, much worse: I feared you had grown dull!”

“Aye,” William seconded from Boromir’s left, a smirk curling his lips. “Much has changed since your Lordship inherited White Hall and the title.”

“You are stalling,” Boromir answered instead, unwilling to surrender his curiosity for merriment just yet.

“I will not deny it,” William grinned, but there was a resolve in his eyes, a price he was after. “After all this effort I should wish to know how you found us in the square first.”

Unbothered by William’s deflection, Boromir shrugged and simply said, “Your horses. I searched the stables and learned of your disguises from the stable master. Not that it was too difficult to find such clean cloaks among the townsfolk.”

“What a treacherous solution,” Theodore moaned, clapping his dear mare’s flank with tender affection. “If such evidence can be used against us we will never be anonymous: Rohan stock is the fairest in the county, no man could overlook their distinguished stature. And none stands finer or prouder than my Daisy.”

“Perhaps that was true, once,” William teased, casually shortening his reins; beneath him, his young mare pranced with a spring in her step, eager to answer the promise of excitement. “But Daisy grows old, and her daughter has the added advantage of her sire’s agility.”

“Even when you boast you give credit to my family and our horses!” Theodore laughed, wasting no time answering William’s insinuated challenge. “I may know little by way of strategy or politics, but never doubt my word on horses. Diana is yet only a shadow of Daisy’s magnificence.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Boromir muttered, all but holding his head in dismay. “Truly, Theodore, had your father the foresight to name you Theodread few would suffer your pride so unprepared.”

“I challenge you, William of Thoresby,” Theodore declared instead, ignoring the Duke’s slight, and even Daisy seemed to grow bolder with his confidence. “First man to reach the Major Oak will prove the incontestable superiority of their horse.”

“We will wait for you at the Black Swan,” William told Boromir as he brought Diana around Perseus to ride beside Theodore. “I accept your challenge, Theodread of Rohan: today your insufferable pride will end!”

“And the same I say to you!” Theodore yelled after him as William tugged the hood of his cloak back into place and leapt into the heavy underbrush of the Forest. Not to be outdone, Theodore took the road at full speed until he, too, tugged his hood up and charged into the wild.

A minute later, Boromir could neither see nor hear his friends. It was as if they were never there. Perseus, young enough to desire a race and experienced enough to obey his master, settled under Boromir’s reassuring words, and instead they took the road north to the chosen inn at a comfortable canter.

***

The disturbances began first near Esgaroth, but Boromir paid no mind to the faint charge of hooves in the forest. After all, his friends were not the only youths inclined to racing around the Major Oak. But as he turned up the Black Hills toward Edwinstowe, a desperate neighing brought his attention around in alarm. There was little evidence for where the sound had come from, but instinct told him to search in the direction of the Oak itself.

On the other side of the Hills, he was met by five riders, all dressed in a black armor adorned with the insignia of the Sheriff's high guard.

“My Lord Duke, I am Tomas of Lenton,” one man hailed him and moved forward to meet Boromir on the road. “There have been reports of poachers in these woods, Your Grace. I would advise you to return the way you came and seek shelter at Esgaroth Abbey until morning.”

“Your concern is appreciated, but unwarranted,” Boromir scowled, maneuvering Perseus around the five horses. “Poachers have little business with inedible prey.”

Tomas was quick to move his horse in Boromir’s way, his men moving beside him. “I’m afraid Your Grace cannot simply enter the Forest. It is unsafe at this time: my men are searching for the poachers as we speak.”

“Unsafe?” Boromir snarled, gripping the pommel of his saddle before he gave in and strangled the guard. “Surely you are not suggesting that they would mistake me for a poacher.”

“Of course not, sir,” Tomas stammered, withering in his saddle but not moving his horse. “It is only that we have archers in the woods, and there is a chance they may mistake you for a poacher in the dark.”

Horror overtook Boromir, miserable and numbing. He spun Perseus around and twisted in his saddle, squinting into the darkness of the Forest for any sign of life - for any sign of his friends.

He was only met by silence.

“Out of my way!” he roared, wielding Perseus’ greater stature and power to force his way through their barricade. He charged into the wild, calling Theodore and William by name, his voice growing more fearful and desperate in the waning light.

There was never an answer his call.


	2. Of Dukeries and their Masters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: William = Thorin, Leif = Legolas.

Following the death of His Highness, the Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell, the once-fragile political climate of the nation shattered. Whether due to its remote situation, or to its relative autonomy, Sherwood Forest had long insulated its inhabitants from bureaucratic instability. But now, as Death accepted Old Ironsides, a sickness long forgotten took root in the Forest.

So it was that in the early days of winter 1658 Sir William, Earl of Orcrist, was removed from the House at Oxford University to fulfill his role as the only son and heir to the Duke of Belegost, Lord Thrain of Thoresby, one of the five Ducal estates that comprise Sherwood Forest.

Despite the circumstances of his unexpected journey, or perhaps because of them, he traveled not alone.

“You are brooding," accused his companion after many hours of bitter silence.

"I do not brood," William muttered, but he was reluctantly compelled to elaborate under the other man’s unconvinced stare. "I am thinking."

"You think very hard," the man observed after some consideration. “Are you not-brooding over my introduction?”

William blinked at him in confusion, slowly returning to the present. "I beg your pardon?"

“Englishmen do not hold my people in high regard. Many assume my manners to be more savage than privileged."

"Had I any concerns for your introductions to anyone in Nottinghamshire, your civility would be the last of them,” said William, a dark frown creasing his mood.

Contented, his companion moved on to another concern. “It is imperative that my title remain unknown at all times. Call me sir only if you must; otherwise, my customary name will do.”

“It would, were people qualified to pronounce it,” William smirked, but his companion interrupted him before William can further amuse himself at the man’s expense.

"Then it shall be Greenleaf,” he declared at once, delighted to reveal his clever solution. “An honest translation, you understand: the meaning remains unchanged."

William stared at him, but his dubious expression did little to sway his companion’s resolve.

“So,” William began slowly, unable to determine whether his friend was mocking him or simply foreign. “You wish to be called Leif Greenleaf?"

“My name is of little significance here,” Leif shrugged, his attention turned back to the farmlands and rolling hills passing by.

"I think you are too generous with us English, Leif. A name that silly will not go unnoticed."

Leif offered only a slight shrug of his shoulders and instead asked, “If you intend to assume lordship over that which goes unnoticed, could you tell me where we are?”

“Am I to understand that maps are not common practice in Sweden?”

“If by map you are referring to that irregular likeness of a boot you scratched out on some parchment, I assure you I disposed of it the very morning we departed Oxford.”

“Yet, had you committed my map to memory,” William drawled, gesturing as if to bring Leif’s attention to all that passed around them beyond the stagecoach, “you would know that we are currently traveling due north between those very two dots.”

“It has been three days,” moaned Leif in poorly concealed exasperation, turning back from the window to share a bored frown with his companion. “I fear we will drive into the ocean before we ever reach Nottingham.”

“Fear not, my friend: countless Scotsmen stand between us and the ocean; they would gladly relieve you of life and limb before you ever taste the Atlantic brine.”

A moment of silence passed before Leif dared to speak, his voice lowered in caution. “How much farther to Scotland?”

“A week, if we should travel with great haste,” answered William, his smirk audible. Leif, however, looked less than impressed, and so William finally deigned to answer his question. “Nottingham is now no farther than three hours, and I am confident we shall reach Thoresby in time for supper this very evening.”

“Thoresby,” Leif hummed softly, a distant smile chasing the creases of boredom from his face. “A strong name, the village of a mighty God.”

“Had my grandfather been alive to hear you call him a God, he would be first to agree with your observation.”

“Tor is a warrior God in the mythos of my country, a slayer of giants and the master of Mjölnr. By is also our word for village - or possibly a hamlet? This distinction is not yet clear to me.”

William squinted at him in thought, unsure yet if he was intrigued or confused. “These lands bear the name of my forefathers: he who first acquired and safeguarded the woods, then later my grandfather, to whom Erebor and many of our present alliances in Parliament are attributed.”

“I am surprised then that such a name has not been reborn in your line since,” murmured Leif after a reverent pause. “Is this not a tradition in this kingdom?”

“It is,” William offered an uneven shrug to demonstrate his own doubts. “I have been told that my grandfather feared our names were not English enough.”

“I,” Leif began, but he closed his mouth before he expressed his first thought. Then, after another pause, he instead asked, “English enough for what purpose?”

“That was never explained, at least not to me,” William confessed, miserable in his sincerity. “The preservation of our power in the House of Lords? Privilege; entitlement; the honored esteem of a new sovereign; your guess could be more valid than mine.”

Leif stared at him with the sorrowful expression of a curator witnessing the ruin of a treasured history. “Such a risk is equal to the loss of your family legacy? Are all the Lords of Sherwood of similar sentiment?”

“It is not my place to speak for all of Sherwood, nor its Lords,” William evaded the unwanted question with ease. “However, should you wish to speak with them directly, our steward, Mister Balin, assures me that the Lords of Sherwood will visit tomorrow evening. I trust you can preserve your melancholy and gloom until then.”

“And your father?” Leif straightened in his seat, growing more serious as a seed of doubt took root in his mind. “Does the Duke remain in Erebor? Are we still in agreement that we will accompany him to court?”

Somehow, William resisted correcting Leif’s choice of words. “Our arrangement remains as it was: we return to London in a fortnight.”

Leif turned his gaze back to the landscape rolling by outside the stagecoach once more. Beautiful as it was, three days were enough to bore even the gladdest arborist, and Leif did not look forward to witnessing it all again so soon in reverse.

“Marvelous.”

***

In the final hours of dusk, the stagecoach pulled south of Netherfield Lane to grace its passengers with the majesty of Erebor Manor. The five storey country house rose from the earth as a lonesome mountain in the woodlands, a union of power and Elizabethan elegance that reflects the enduring strength of its Master, the Duke of Kingston.

The doors were pulled open at once as the stagecoach came to a halt, revealing a small gathering of servants eager to receive both passengers. Two men stood sentry and at attention with lanterns in hand to aid the receding light of day.

William was the first to descend from the carriage, and even as his second foot reached the delicate gravel an older man partially concealed by a great white beard bundled him up in heavy woolen cloak and led him towards the house. There was a comforting murmur in the wind and William let the servant shepherd him away, but even as he followed with confident strides he twisted in the embrace of wool and gentle guidance to the voice calling him from the south.

From beyond Edwinstowe and the woods of Esgaroth the shadow of the Major Oak made itself known. Spurned memories of wretched failure pressed into his unarmed mind, and moments later, when he found himself scrutinized by an old friend in the safety of his father’s home, he could not recall how he came to stand there.

“You alright, laddie?”

William’s sudden intake of breath was all that revealed his surprise, and he rejoined the present as a man resurfacing for breath. Immediately he willed his attention back to the servant watching him in concern.

“I am well, Balin,” said he, lowering his voice now in an effort to mask any lingering trace of his disconcerting alarm. “I trust all is in order, and that you are in good health.”

“As well as can be expected, my lord,” Balin confirmed, helping William out of his overcoat. Beside them, Leif stood obediently still and observed the process curiously as a similar experience was put upon him. “As I was saying, sir, I am to inform you that the Duke expects your presence in the library immediately upon arrival.”  
  
William acknowledged the message with a nod, turning then to bring Balin’s attention to Leif. “Balin, allow me to introduce you to our honored guest, Sir Leif Greenleaf from the Kingdom of Sweden. Have supper and a bath prepared for him at once.”

Satisfied by Balin’s agreement and Leif’s absorption in the opulent furnishings of the foyer, William excused himself without delay to join his father in the library.

***

The Duke’s private library remained unchanged, as if William had been absent from the scene an hour and not half a decade. The meticulous arrangement of books and papers still lay protected by the cavernous ceiling that reached for the heavens, settled securely over its implacable foundation of power and knowledge. Stained glass windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling on all outward walls of the room in varying designs: first, the ordered, monochromatic cobalt columns taller than any full-grown man lit the room in the regal blue hue most now associated with the line of Durin; then, as the walls reached closer to the ornate dome which capped the room, the shape and design of the glass emerged from their purposeful uniformity and grew into what could only be called art.

Perched over the cobalt columns, dramatic panels crafted in vivid detail and in brilliant colors depicted the momentous achievements and victories of Lord Thorin, the first Duke of Belegost, and the man hailed as the great nobleman who first brought compassion and order to Sherwood Forest. Further still these elegant designs reached, growing more decorative and abstract as they neared the climactic floral stained and jeweled dome.

Unlike most visitors honored with a view of the Duke’s library, the magnificence of the dome rarely tempted William. For him it was the narrative panels commemorating the achievements of his ancestor that always stole his attention. Now, after many years removed from his ancestral home, the memories of Thorin’s legacy returned to him with new life, seen through a new light.

“Ah, William,” said the Duke, looking up from his seat by the fireplace as William remembered himself and closed the door behind him. Lord Thrain did not stand to meet him, but instead set his book aside and gestured to the unoccupied wainscot armchair to his right. “Have a seat.”

“Father,” answered William by way of greeting, and he sat beside him as bidden. “Balin said you wished to speak with me.”

“I am well,” the Duke answered instead, observing the enthusiastic fire crackling before them rather than his son. “Should it have crossed your mind, I am well and in good health.”

“And I am glad for it,” William all but whispered, “forgive me, father.”

“However,” the Duke continued, neither acknowledging nor accepting William’s words, “good health remains a conditional circumstance of old age.”

William looked up in alarm at his father's unusual choice of words, but his father’s expression, transfixed by the fire, betrayed neither clarification nor affection. It did not take William long to deduce the subject of his father’s summons.

“I am required in London at once,” the Duke began a new thought, moving on to business. “I will depart at the earliest opportunity tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” William frowned, echoing his father’s words in an effort to confirm his suspicions of father's intentions. “What was the purpose of my journey north if our business in London requires such immediate attention?”

The Duke’s slight frown and raised brows could only be described as unimpressed, and he allowed an extended moment of silence to pass before he finally turned to meet his son’s heated expression.

“Matters in Parliament require my immediate attention,” Lord Thrain answered evenly, correcting his son’s assumption. His every aspect reflected a dignity and composure that William had not yet mastered, and he paused briefly to let his message take root amid William’s anger and confusion. “You will remain here in Nottinghamshire. Erebor will be in your care until I can return.”

“Father,” William began, but the Duke interrupted him at once.

“This is not a matter for negotiation, William,” said he, and the threat of the Duke’s brutal will betrayed his composure momentarily. He paused again before adding, “Mark my words, my son: you will remain here.”

William all but kneaded his forehead to temper his anger, struggling to remain civil in his father’s audience. “I do not understand,” he ground out through gritted teeth, looking up again to meet his father’s gaze. “Balin has served as steward for these lands in the past. We were in agreement, we had an understanding; for the sake of England, you said.”

The Duke bowed his head, and his gesture stayed the words on William’s tongue. William waited, unaccustomed to seeing his father’s behavior reflect anything so vulnerable.

“You have left me little choice,” his father said then, his words soft and approaching apologetic. “You have removed yourself from these lands for far too long, William. You cannot hide forever. Erebor is not your privilege: it is your purpose above all other matters. Leave England to Parliament.”

William rose to his feet at once, looming over his father in sudden anger. “Erebor will stand; Sherwood will stand,” he growled, “what I cannot do is stand aside when good men risk their lives in the South for our future gains.”

The Duke watched William’s rage with composed dignity, and when he stood to meet his son it was with a grace and restraint born of power. “You are my only son, and do not forget it,” he said with such deliberate calm, that spoken in a whisper, the weight of the Duke’s rage seems tenfold in every word. “As such you will maintain our interests: you will protect this estate, this land and its people. And above all, your willful ignorance of your own servitude ends tonight. A noble station and wealth does not earn you immunity from duty, and your duty lies here.”

Neither of them moved for a long time in the pregnant silence that follows, until finally William looked away, conceding with a bow of his head. The Duke stepped away then, standing closer to the fire with his gaze turned away from his son. When he spoke again, his voice was returned to the composure and calm most characteristic of him.

“I have received word from Dís.”

His sister’s name cut through the haze of betrayal and defeat, and with his breath caught in his throat William turned his full attention to his father again. Her name and memory had been absent from Sherwood longer than William was willing to admit – even to himself – yet the sudden bloom of relief at the sound of her name was tempered just as quickly by dread. Eight years ago, even his dying mother's last wish had not moved the Duke to acknowledge Dís again; William paled to think what tragedy would now cause the Duke to change his mind.

“She has two sons by that French grocer,” the Duke all but spat, “but they are sons, young men of age, and they are of our blood. I have extended invitations to them both, and they are scheduled to arrive tomorrow.”

Whether stunned by elation or confusion, William only had enough sense to slowly repeat, “Sons?”

“Philippe and Killian. In my absence, and only in my absence, Dís has allowed for them to visit Erebor,” said the Duke, then he turned to William again, and with great care and gravity he added, “Convince them to stay here, William. Spare no expense. They are men from the line of Durin, and they must return home.”

Driven by indignity on behalf of his sister and a filial love debased by the Duke’s pride, William withdrew from his reverie and crossed the space between them to meet the Duke’s will directly. “After all that she has suffered at your hands, for your conceit, for loving a man your vanity would not accept?” He looked down on the other man with a sneer. “You will not hold power over my sister or her sons.”

“I will not, William: You will,” answered the Duke with an impassivity that only seemed to exist to further infuriate his son. “Should you fail to do so, you will leave me with no other recourse but to see you wed to the Lady of Rohan.”

“Éowyn?” William breathed, stunned, the conversation having rounded on him much too quickly for him to keep his composure. “She is but a child, she can be no more than fifteen years of age.”

“Seventeen,” the Duke corrected him coldly, unimpressed. “It should come as no surprise to you, William, that time passes in Sherwood Forest even in your absence.”

“Father, unless she has sprouted sense and wit in the years that I have been away, I beg you, spare me this scheme. Little else would be enough to endear her to me.”

“Truly, William?” said the Duke, his voice rising with an unusual show of temper. “Or do you object because she is able to bear you an heir?”

His stunned surprise mutated vindictively into poorly veiled horror, and he hurried to deny his father’s insinuation. “Father, no, I only—”

But Lord Thrain brought up a hand to silence William and his feeble dissent, and when he speaks it was with the gentle patience of a father.

“William, I know,” he whispered in a rare demonstration of sympathy for his heir. Taller though he was, William shrank where he stood and cast his eyes downward, a shadow of the man he had been moments earlier. In the end, it was all he can do to remain standing to bear his father’s judgment.

“I know. I have known for many years,” his father said again after a brief silence, waiting then for his son to meet his gaze before he continued, “And I confess to you that you are no less my son for it. But by virtue of who we are, we are not in a position to indulge in the luxuries of our choosing: a male heir must be born, of the right position and creed. If an heir is not to be by your sister, then it must be by your doing.”

A heavy silence lingered between father and son, until at last William must have realized that these words had not been a conspiracy of his own mind and, little by little, he found the will to acknowledge his father's acceptance.

“Your will be done, father,” William answered at last, his voice growing in strength as he continued. “I only ask you to choose any other woman—Éowyn is a sister to me as I am a brother to her. I know and respect the man to whom her heart belongs. Do not ask of me to undermine their happiness.”

“Maintaining strong alliances between the Dukeries has preserved our peace for many generations, William,” said the Duke coolly, though not unkindly. “The bond between Gondor and Rohan lies secure in the brotherhood of Faramir and Éomer. I cannot allow their alliance to grow stronger still. A marriage between their lands could isolate Erebor in Sherwood permanently.”

“There must be another way,” William tried, but even as he spoke he struggled to find a convincing argument. “We are not so weak in Nottinghamshire to fear a strong alliance between two families in Sherwood.”

“We hold power in Parliament, it is true,” answered the Duke, “but Rohan has great wealth and esteem in their stock, and Gondor wields respect and power through the military. A union between their lands will bring an imbalance to the Dukeries that future generations may never overcome.”

“Whether it is you or a son of Dís, Erebor can not and will not stand alone,” the Duke said at last when William had fallen silent. “Whom that man shall be is the choice I leave to you.”


	3. Meanwhile, in Nottingham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oin, a skilled medic with a successful practice in London, travels north with his apprentice to visit his brother's family in Nottingham.

“And to think the lad is only sixteen years of age!” chortled Oin with great pride, urging their team of ponies onward with another rap of the reins. “As big as a boar, my brother swears it, and already his whiskers are beginning to grow. A hardy man he will be if ever there was one, mark my words.”

Beside him his apprentice smiled obligingly, lost in his haze of wonder as he tried to absorb the natural grandeur of the Forest, from the towering oaks to the knobbly old birches, from whispering leaves to the elusive mystery tucked out of sight within tight copses of conspiring foliage. Yet even with his eyes casting about in open admiration, the apprentice managed to maintain his part of the conversation with the Master healer, no doubt a benefit of long-standing practice.

“Is he to be a soldier like his father?” asked he, twisting on the cart’s little perch to squint down yet another unmarked path leading away into woods.

“Ha?” grunted the healer, leaning closer to his apprentice to hear him more clearly. With his hands fully occupied steering the ponies Oin’s ear trumpet did little more than gather dust while they traveled, leaving their conversation on the road comfortably stilted in Oin’s favor with his apprentice as his rapt (captive) audience.

“Is he to be a soldier like his father?” asked the apprentice again, speaking more slowly and taking care to loudly enunciating every word.

“Aye, I suspect he will,” Oin sighed, his shoulders slumping as his voice dimmed to a murmur, disheartened by the very thought. “And a good soldier he would make with a father like my brother, but his mother…”

“Does not wish to see her only son become a soldier?” guessed the apprentice in the same loud voice, and Oin nodded.

“She has asked me to take him away from Nottingham, to take him south with us,” he explained, and though the thought of such conflict tired him, he seemed quite adamant to share it. “Introduce him to a world beyond soldiers, clergy, farmers, and lords.”

The apprentice furrowed his brows in thought and finally he turned to his master; following a long, considering pause, he carefully asked, “What says Master Gloin of these plans?”

“Now, Bilbo, what have I been telling you?” groused Oin quite loudly, “you must speak up! Even a competent apothecary and healer is ineffective if his voice lacks all impetus.”

“You have been willfully difficult this whole week, haven’t you?” groaned his apprentice, a statement of dawning realization rather than a question. “Of all the unconventional methods of instruction, Master Oin—”

“Fetch our papers, Bilbo,” Oin cut in, giving Bilbo a little nudge and hitching his chin ahead to draw Bilbo’s attention to the imposing walls that came into view as their little cart emerged from a dense clustering of trees.

Like most of his family, Bilbo had lived in London all his life; stout defensive city walls, fortified gates, and patrolling guards were neither unfamiliar nor unexpected. What he had not prepared for was the disproportionate number of soldiers stationed on the battlements, patrolling the walls, and anticipating their approach from the safety of the barred city gates.

“Bilbo?” said Oin under his breath, and his voice shook Bilbo’s attention from the overt display of military force. “Leave the purse where it is; five pounds should do us just fine.”

With a quick nod Bilbo climbed into the back of the cart and dug into his satchel for the purse and their papers. He leafed through the documents and counted the money with great care before coming back up to join Oin on the cart’s perch.

“Is it customary for there to be this many guards?” asked Bilbo while they were still a comfortable distance away.

“On my last visit, I only saw four guards, one of which was my brother,” answered Oin, and if his hearing had miraculously returned now at the sight of the heavily armed soldiers, neither of them acknowledged its fickle nature. “There is a new Sheriff in power, but whether this is by his will or by necessity,” Oin’s words trailed off there and he shrugged to demonstrate his current ignorance on the subject.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, they steadily closed the distance between their cart and the gate, altogether unaware of whether they were escaping the threat that required such a display of military force, or if they were moving directly into it.

When they were only a dozen yards from the city, the gates began groaning under a sudden pressure, and slowly they parted to reveal a lone mounted soldier. The tall rider, dressed in full uniform and carrying a musket over his knees, wasted no time directing his burly Fell pony at them in a full gallop.

“There, Bilbo, we are quite safe,” said he with a growing smile, “this is the one man in all of Nottingham we can trust with our lives.”

Bilbo frowned at him in confusion, much to Oin’s amusement.

“I know, I know what you must be thinking: ‘round and white, tall and red?’ But do not be mistaken, that beard could not belong to any other. Allow me to introduce you to my brother, Mister Gloin Stidolph.”

Even as he reined his pony into a sudden halt beside the cart, Gloin completed his brother’s introduction with a sweeping bow and declared himself, “at your service, Mister Baggins!”

***

After several weeks on the road, suppertime found Bilbo faced with yet another unforeseen social puzzle. While it was true that he and Oin had never wanted for food or shelter on the road, eating a meal prepared by a doting mother was an indulgence that Bilbo had lived without for many years.

“Master Baggins,” said Gloin’s wife, Emily, with what could only be described as frightening intuition, “stand on ceremony under my roof and you’ll as sooner meet the flat of my spoon.”

“Our roof,” her husband added under his breath with a petulant expression and predictably futile hope.

“What’d you say, my love?” asked she in a most innocent and deceptively charming tone. “It’s difficult to hear you, with my mind so distracted by this alarming lack of firewood in my kitchen.”

Oin erupted with laughter, and beside him his nephew coughed into his fist in an attempt to avoid revealing his own amusement at his father’s expense. Gloin, red as his beard, sulked and grew silent in his seat.

“I doubt that I could,” admitted Bilbo, valiantly moving the conversation away from Gloin, “the smell alone is delightful.”

“Delightful!” she crowed, and Bilbo was awarded by being served second only to Gimli. “Hear that, husband? You let me know if you’d like seconds, Master Baggins. There is plenty.”

“Is the state of my stomach not admiration enough?” Gloin spread his arms wide to emphasize his bulk, although Bilbo would guess his size owed more to muscle than adipose. “Not a soul in Nottingham doubts your hand in the kitchen, my dove - and if they ever do, I would make such an end of them—”

Emily interrupted his fervent declarations of admiration and love by stretching over the table and nudging his as of yet untouched bowl of stew closer to him. “That’s all good my dear, now eat up.”

Eager to please, the men awaited no further invitation and begin their meal. Soon thereafter the mistress of the house settled the remainder of her stew over a small flame and joined them with a bowl of her own.

“I’ve done up some beds for you by the fire. Consider the room your own for the time that you are here, and this as your home.”

“My unending gratitude to you, beloved sister,” declared Oin with a little bow of his head. Already he was scraping the bottom of his bowl, and Emily provided him with seconds before a word was spoken. Their supper continued in silence, but far from the tensions at the gate this silence weighed heavy with warm comfort, an unreserved affection percolating in the undercurrents of the modest kitchen.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stidolph,” said Bilbo with due reverence as he finished his meal, tearing off a bite of his roll to mop up the last of his stew. “Master Oin shared many stories of Nottinghamshire over the years, and only his kindest words describe your hospitality.”

Emily smiled brightly and with great pride, relishing the compliments of a southerner. “And what of the rest, Master Baggins? Is this your first venture north?”

“At the risk of offense, Master Oin’s stories have not done the forest justice," answered Bilbo, though his smile is somewhat tempered by his memories at the gate. “Only, the soldiers surprised me.”

“They surprised us all,” admitted Emily in a quiet voice, casting an anxious look at her son as if to reassure herself that he is safe. This look only goes unnoticed by father and son, but when Bilbo looks away from the mother and child he noticed that Oin was looking directly at him. Unaware of their silent observations, Emily continued. “There’s been unrest in Sherwood Forest, some reports of bandits and robbers. Sheriff Smaug has added to the soldiers’ numbers three-fold for our protection.”

“Bandits?” asked Bilbo as Oin frowned and said, “we heard nothing of such trouble on the road.”

“All reports are from the north,” Gloin explained, and his wife quickly fills his bowl with the last of the stew the moment his attention was turned to their guests. “It’s been nearly eight months since we heard of bandits targeting travelers, though none’s been caught. The Sheriff says they must be native to the Forest, disguised in plain sight.”

“Still, it is a foul act on his part,” his wife added, “not one injury in all that time, besides the harm done to man’s purse and self-importance. Those new soldiers provide no comfort to anyone but the Sheriff and his people.”

“How long has this been going on?” asked Bilbo, frowning as he recalled Oin’s sympathy for Mrs. Stidolph and her wish to send her only child away from Nottingham.

“Perhaps two years now,” Gloin was first to answer them, though he looked to his wife for confirmation before adding, “the Forest has not been the same since the death of Lord Theoden’s heir. That was five years ago—not long after your last visit, brother.”

“Sir Theodore?" exclaimed Oin in shock, striking his open fist onto the tabletop with such force that the sudden crack jolted his poor nephew and apprentice in their seats. “Brother, what good are your letters if you insist on sharing no news with me! How did this happen?”

“An accident,” grumbled Gloin, though he looked ready to fume with anger so it was his wife who clarified.

“Nobody believes the story,” said she, “but the Sheriff said that the boy was mistaken for a poacher in the night by his soldiers.”

“Sir Theodore?” wondered Oin again in utter disbelief, “that golden child mistaken for a poacher, and on his horse? A blind man could have recognized that mare in the dark!”

“Aye,” grunted his brother, “shot right in the heart, they say. Such a small target takes effort and luck, yet to think he suffered little... But, for the Duke…”

“And Sir William,” Emily recalled with sadness, glancing to her own son as if assuring herself he was safe still. Then, with sudden realization, she added a quick explanation for Bilbo’s benefit, “He was Sir Theodore’s closest friend. They say he was there that night; he’s not returned to Thoresby in all this time. Lord Theoden named his sister-son his heir in Theodore’s place, but Lord Thrain, Sir William’s father, is not equally blessed with choice.”

As the only man not native to Nottinghamshire and bewildered by the overwhelming number of new names, Bilbo looked between all of them in the hopes of understanding how any of this answered his initial question. “I beg your pardon, but how does this relate to the bandits?”

“Oh!” Gloin shook his head at his mistake. “How’d you have known, Mister Baggins? You see, here in Sherwood Forest much of the land were managed by the Dukeries, five estates of great wealth and power. The Sheriff is the authority in Nottinghamshire, it is true, but the Dukeries traditionally kept their people and roads out of pocket. Previous Sheriffs were glad for it: less work and less soldiers to employ meant more freedom and greater wealth for them. But under the leadership of the Duke of Osgiliath, Gondor is now alone in securing its peace and its people. Lord Boromir is a military man like no other, and his men are not of little consequence.”

“Since Lord Boromir’s militia was successful in keeping Gondor safe, at first we were glad for Sheriff Smaug’s new soldiers here, too,” said Emily, her voice more cautious than before. “But these soldiers are not the same as the men of Gondor, and the Dukeries provided more than just protection. They helped the people, the farmers and tradesmen in times of need. But keeping these soldiers is, well, different.”

Oin glowered and fumed, but when his nephew looked up at him in his silence with sadness in his eyes, the fight left Oin in a sudden gush of empathy. Putting aside his anger, he smiled and ruffled the child’s mop of unruly red hair. “Not a word from you, my boy! I trust you have behaved in my absence, excepting of course in the presence of your Uncle Dwalin.”

“Brother!” cried Gloin as Emily gasped in feigned shock, but Gimli looked unrepentant and absolutely pleased with himself when he cheered, “As sure as a Frenchman cries!”

“What’ve you been teaching my son,” Emily demanded with a sudden bite, narrowing her eyes at Oin. “Filling his head with lies about the French?”

“Are you suggesting that Frenchmen never cry?” Gloin challenged his wife in his brother’s defense, but the sincerity of his words was undermined entirely when he flashed a mischievous wink at his son.

“Good and bad folk live everywhere, Gimli,” Emily told her son, then leveled a dissatisfied glance at both Oin and Gloin as she added, “do not believe these two oafs: they are too foolish to know better.”

“Peace, sister, peace, I will say no more about the French,” promised Oin and turned back to Gimli. “Your father’s been telling me you’ve gotten mighty good with the axe, my boy. What do you say you show me, and we go fix some firewood for your beautiful, intelligent, and very forgiving mother?”

Gimli hopped out of his seat and pulled his uncle along, eager to show him everything once his Uncle’s attention was finally on him, too. “Father gifted me with a new axe on my birthday, he says it is a twin of his own!” he reported even as Oin tried to follow the tugging on his arm and get up without tripping over the kitchen bench.

“Coming, dear child,” Oin huffed and, having finally freed himself from behind the kitchen table, followed his nephew out the kitchen door. “Now, I want to hear all about the trouble you’ve caused your Uncle Dwalin. How much hair does he truly have left?”

The three adults who remained by the table kept silent and listened to the fading trail of the exiting conversation. Then, Emily dropped her head into her hands, and despite the tension only moments earlier, her shoulders shook with barely restrained laughter much like Gloin’s, who set his jaw against his own unexpected stroke of glee.

Bilbo looked between them with great curiosity, and their amusement was so infectious that a smile began tugging on his lips before he had understood the cause of their good humor. “Who—Who is Uncle Dwalin?”

Gloin gave up then and barked a great laugh, a sound both hearty and rich that inevitably coaxed out his wife’s own bright laughter.

“Dwalin! Dwalin is our cousin,” he said with a wide, toothy grin. “My brother takes great delight in frustrating him: Oin is determined to drive our cousin bald, and he has employed my son as his unwitting pawn.”

“Be prepared for a trip north to Thoresby,” Emily whispered, although whom she was conspiring against and who might have overheard her was as of yet unclear to Bilbo. “Soon as Oin finds out Dwalin’s hairless, he’ll insist—”

Just then Oin charged back inside through the kitchen door and with great enthusiasm he announced, “Bilbo! I have just been informed of a matter that requires my immediate attention. Tomorrow morning we depart for Thoresby at first light.”

***

“Disgraceful, the state of these roads,” muttered Oin to no-one in particular, staring out into the gloomy aftermath of the day-long downpour with a most forlorn air about him. “Always the Lord must piss on my dreams. Now we'll be fortunate to reach Erebor before nightfall."

"Is it safe to travel so late in the day with reports of bandits nearby?"

"Ha?" Oin exclaimed, then shrugged, "if I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times: speak up, Bilbo! Fortune favors the bold."

"And, apparently, the deaf," muttered Bilbo under his breath, but then a little louder added, "How inconvenient that you should have forgotten your ear trumpet in Master Gloin's home."

"Terribly inconvenient," agreed Oin, not bothering to hide his satisfied grin.

"Will you tell me more about the Dukeries then?" asked Bilbo, familiar with Oin's preference for monologues over dialogues. "Master Gloin said there were five, yet only three were named last night."

"Aye, Thoresby, Rohan, and Gondor. Worksop is another such estate, and Esgaroth. Esagroth is not a ducal seat, yet it's Master holds similar interest and influence over its lands. Worksop," he began, but trailed off with a frown on his face. "Worksop is a confusing exception to many rules, dear Bilbo. Many details are unclear, and time has only made the matter worse."

"What matter?" Bilbo prodded when Oin seemed to fall silent to his own thoughts.

"There was an attack on the house nearly twenty years ago; the culprits, their motives, and the extent of their damage is unknown. The Duke and Duchess of Glenfolk, though generous and kind to their people, were reclusive and rarely seen. You see, Bilbo, the Duke inherited his duties early in life, so he and the Duchess were very young. For this reason many suspect that they were seen as an easy target for opportunistic thieves; others remember the renown beauty of the Duchess and believe it was an attempt to steal her from the Duke."

"All that is certain is that the estate was ransacked, all the gold and silver stolen, and Worksop Manor nearly burned to the ground that night. Had Lord Theoden and his men not arrived in time, the heritage and treasures of the Dukes of Glenfolk would have been lost."

Bilbo interrupted what he suspected to be an ode to Lord Theoden and instead asked, "But what of the people, their servants and staff? Were the Duke and Duchess rescued?"

"The men who were harmed were those most loyal to the Duke as they re-entered the house to find him. And their number should not be undervalued, for the Duke was a good man. Yet since that day the Duke and the Duchess of Glenfolk were never seen again."

Bilbo stared at Oin expectantly, but when the healer didn’t continue, he frowned and asked, "Then who holds power over the people living on the Worksop lands now?"

"The Master of Esgaroth holds that power in the interim, until the King selects another man for the seat at Worksop," Oin sighed, his mustache and beard twitching downward with an aborted frown. "The Master is a lesser man than the Lords of Sherwood; not in his riches or influence, you understand, but the quality of his character. Another man of such little sympathy and self-restraint would be hard to find anywhere in the Empire."

"You take this very seriously," Bilbo remarked, watching his master with peculiar fascination. "Are all people of this county likewise invested in the status and livelihoods of their lords?"

"Perhaps not. But there is no man who is not aware or whose life remains unaffected when a generous Duke is lost or replaced by a lesser man," said Oin, not with little pride. "Many men in my family have served the Lords of Thoresby for many generations; this is a privilege, and one that is of great worth to my family. Without Lord Thrain's influence and his respect for my father's service, I would not have been chosen for my first apprenticeship in London."

"The Duke of Belegost personally secured your apprenticeship?" Bilbo stared in disbelief. "What did your father do?"

"My father, like his father before him, was a gardener, one of twenty working on the estate," said Oin with a small, private smile that reflected a longstanding pride in his father's trade. "He was a good man, and Lord Thrain has never been known to turn away a good man in need."

"Will we meet him?" asked Bilbo, eager despite his lingering confusion and conviction that these stories weren’t all part of an elaborate scheme natives of Sherwood played on southerners. "When we arrive, I mean, will he be there?"

For the first time Oin hesitated in his story-telling, frowning in deep thought before he offered his apprentice an answer. "I intend to request an audience with him, should my cousin Balin allow it. I mean to repay him in full for his years of sponsorship."

But there Oin's words trailed off with uncertainty, and despite his best efforts to stare his master down Bilbo couldn’t get those final words out of him.

***

"Nori!" cried Bofur as he wove through the trees at a dangerous speed. "Nori, fresh meat incoming!"

Nori and the other two men of their company look up from the little fire that constituted their camp, and Bofur slid into a seated halt between Dori and Bifur to terrorize their leader with his beaming smile. "Didn't you hear me? Why are you still seated?"

"What part of exercising greater caution escaped your attention yesterday?" Dori accused, "They’re looking for us, so we keep to ourselves unless it's an easy take."

"But it won’t be getting easier than this, lads! I heard of a posh healer all the way from London with only his little apprentice for safety, and sure enough--his cart is covered, but from what I could tell it looks packed with plenty."

Dori and Nori shared a calculating look and finally turned to Bifur, who, much like his brother, seemed quite taken by the target at hand.

"A healer will carry medicine or coin," he said. "Either will serve well."

Nori nodded in agreement, then turned to Bofur with what could only be described as a predatory smirk.

"Show me."


	4. An unexpected party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family, friends, and complete strangers show up at Erebor Manor. Some are invited, some less so, but at least Dwalin has no more hair to lose.

Dark, heavy clouds hung low across the sky at dawn the next morning, and their temper only grew less hospitable with each passing hour. The forest lay silent around Erebor, trees and beasts alike holding their breath before a coming storm.

By the time Boromir found William in a distant pasture, unmoving and alone, the sky had shunned the sun altogether. He dismounted some feet away from the young lord and allowed Perseus to roam freely as he closed the remaining distance between himself and his friend on foot; Perseus, unaware or unbothered by his freedom, followed his master obediently lest the biped lost himself.

"So the Earl of Orcrist returns," Boromir announced with a fond smile, his words drawing William from his thoughts and into a fierce embrace. "It does me good to see you again, my friend, but what business have you in these fields?"

"I should ask you the same; is there so little to do in Gondor that its Lord seeks new purpose with his neighbors?"

Boromir laughed at the absurdity of such luxuries. "I am only here to accompany your father to London, but this morning he feared you had escaped the Shire for good. I merely offered my assistance to the search party."

"Your assistance is unnecessary and unwelcome," muttered William, biting back some colorful words to better describe how he felt toward his father at the moment. He was, however, not above scowling at his obnoxious friend for all that he was not at fault.

"Then what of Perseus's assistance, my good sir?" smiled Boromir a touch too cheerfully, clearly amused by his moody friend. Beside them Perseus perked up from his lazy grazing at the mention of his name, and snuffled at his master's outstretched hand in question before gravitating closer to them. Patting his horse’s flanks absently in greeting, Boromir tried again to get an answer out of William. "The empty bridle and lead in your hand suggests you are a mount short, perhaps it would be easier to find your horse on horseback?"

A warming smile tugged at William's wry expression at the sight of such a clear bond between the stallion and his master. "Diana is a possessive creature, Boromir, I would not risk my life or Perseus to her retribution."

Beside him, Boromir's smile sobered and fell into a frown, and he turned slowly to search the horizon for the mare. "Diana has not answered your call?" he asked, genuinely confused. "I would have been less surprised to find that horse waiting for you inside Erebor herself."

"They have had little success with her in my absence," William confessed ruefully. "Rohan stock is exemplary, but they do not share well. They say she has been missing for some time."

Boromir spared a glance to consider his own horse, and a quiet chuckle escaped him at the rather dubious look the stallion gave him in return. "You speak the truth, my friend, so you have little to fear: whatever grudge she has against you will mean little once she is aware of your return. Which reminds me," he added then, and William paused his visual search of the woodlands in the distance to give Boromir his full attention. "Your father has shared the good news of your sister-sons; is it true that they arrive from London this very day?"

"Should they not be delayed on the road, yes," William confirmed, but despite the sudden surge of affection he felt for his sister and the nephews he had never met, he remained cautiously neutral before Boromir's intentions were made clear.

"Your father expressed his desire to offer his grandsons instruction in horse riding, as any gentleman deserves. I have offered the services of my stable master for this purpose, as I know no better man outside of Rohan for the task."

"They must know how to ride," William glowered in sudden defense of his sister’s family. "Their father is a man of good standing; do not humor my father's prejudices so readily, Boromir."

"Their father is a merchant and a shopkeeper," Boromir answered carefully, "whether he is a gentleman or not, there may not have been reason or opportunity for the boys to learn the way we must in the country. City-dwellers live differently, William, particularly those who live in London."

The younger lord grudgingly considered Boromir's reasoning until he finally offered a minimal nod in deference and said, "Then I thank you for your generosity. Balin will be grateful for the help."

"Or frustrated," said Boromir with a poorly concealed smirk. "The man's methods are rather peculiar, but I have yet to see him fail."

"I look forward to making his acquaintance," answered William with a more sincere smile, gladdened that his sister-sons would have one of the best at their disposal. "What is his name?"

"You may already know of him – he hails from Thoresby, and his mother worked in Erebor for some time before they moved to Gondor," Boromir said at first, then with a shrug, he came to answer William’s question. "His name is Frerin."

***

"You are thinking very hard again," Leif accused under his breath. "What are you not-brooding about this time?"

"That ungrateful, disrespectful, presumptuous, dissenting villein—"

Leif cleared his throat loudly in the middle of William's sudden tirade, and instinctively he squared his shoulders further against the inevitable task of receiving the youngest of the line of Durin. Dwalin had left to escort the nephews from Nottingham personally many hours ago, and by generous estimate the nephews should have arrived half an hour earlier.

In all this time, William’s temper had bubbled under the surface, a palpable tension that unnerved all those who waited for the potential heirs of Durin. All but Leif had shuffled away from the top of the stairs and had chosen instead to wait in the graveled courtyard, standing as far from the Earl as they politely could.

Leif sighed and tried to keep his voice calm even as he observed, "I see you are brooding."

"—how _dare_ she use a name from my family!" William forced through gritted teeth, snarling at the very thought of such blatant irreverence. "A servant has no right to such a noble name."

"Perhaps this is not the manner in which you wish to greet your nephews, my friend," Leif suggested carefully after a longer pause. "After all, their father is not of noble birth."

The thought of offending Dís, however indirectly, sobered William in one breath. He focused his gaze on the road and woods ahead, and with concentrated effort he found the shadow of a former peace within him. His sister-sons were due to arrive any moment, and had he no other happiness this knowledge alone was cause for unbridled celebration. With these thoughts close to heart he found release from the tension in his shoulders and in his fists, and quietly, even apologetically, he addressed his friend beside him. "It is good of you to remain in Sherwood."

Leif offered a curt nod in return, and as was the nature of their friendship, he too kept his gaze averted and firmly focused on the woods ahead. "It will please my father," he confessed quietly. "He is a suspicious man, he has no faith in English politicians."

"Some days, I would be inclined to agree with him," answered William, but the thought was quickly dismissed with a heavy sigh. "Where are they? Dwalin sent word from the road over an hour ago."

Leif opened his mouth to offer some needed but hollow reassurances when a movement at the farthest glimpse of the road stayed his words. William squinted at the far-off flicker of movement, but Leif stepped forward in his concentration to confirm his first suspicions. With a smile he turned to his friend and announced: "A carriage and four riders bearing your family crest are approaching. It will not be long."

"Balin!" William called into the house at once, making his demands before Balin has even shown himself fully. "Prepare warm baths and meals to be brought up for the boys."

"Will he return to greet them?" Leif asked in undertone as he, too, observed Balin's immediate retreat to coordinating the activities of the house.

"By God, I hope so," William breathed, shaking his head at himself as if to clear his mind of nerves. "The irony is that Dís would know precisely what to do and what to say."

Leif grinned, and together they turned again to watch the procession of riders and the carriage pull through the main gates of Erebor Hall. "My father would say that irony is how we know there is a God."

"Your father and I appear to agree on many things today," muttered William with a quick flash of a grin, but beside him Leif side-eyed him in sudden discomfort, clearly unsure of whether to laugh or cry first at such a statement.

Before another word could be spared for such thoughts Dwalin had dismounted and handed his horse off to a stablehand to come around the carriage and open the doors for the guests himself. The usual cluster of servants who attend the returning Lords of Thoresby were present, but in Dwalin’s presence they afforded the passengers of the carriage a respectful berth until they were called.

Two young men, as alike as night and day, cautiously descended. They moved in silent and instinctive unison, their expressions well composed in the face of grandeur and more sprawling woodlands than most city-dwellers experienced in a lifetime. As one they stood absolutely still once on solid ground, staring openly at the tall, dark man at the top of the stairs who appeared equally powerless to stare at the two of them in return.

A long silence fell over the three sons of Durin, frozen as they were in a stalemate of disbelief.

"Welcome, young sirs," Balin announced at last as he emerged from William's shadow, descending the stairs to meet the boys at the same level, and he bowed low in greeting. "It is an honor to receive the sons of Lady Dís in this home, and a greater honor besides to meet you both. My name is Balin; allow me to assist you in all that you require during your stay in Nottinghamshire."

Watching the boys tentatively smile and nod in turn in response to Balin’s welcome, William was suddenly overcome with a distaste for their reception, and at once he descended the stairs to greet his nephews properly. The realization that these boys were his nephews—that they were _his long-lost sister’s sons_ —arrested him briefly as he stood immediately before them, a sudden and overwhelming sense of pride and affection robbing him of all coherent thought as he drank in the sight of them. The elder of the two, judging by his trimmed beard and mustache, bore a crown of golden hair not often seen in their family, but his blue eyes could have been William's own reflection. The younger boasted their characteristic dark coloring, and his sharp, inquisitive brown eyes reminded him so strongly of Dís that he nearly sobbed at her memory. 

Whatever words had been on William's tongue died under the force of such thoughts, and abandoning all sense of propriety and decorum he reached out for both boys, drawing them into an embrace of unreserved desperate affection. Four arms swiftly enveloped his body in a most enthusiastic response, and soon soft, muffled sounds of wet laughter and tender endearments were heard from the three men.

"I am William of Thoresby, the Earl of Orcrist; all that I am is at your service," he promised the boys once he took a reluctant step back, but his hands remained on each of the boys' shoulders, unwilling as he was to give up contact with his nephews.

The younger wiped at his eyes aggressively with the back of a shirtsleeve, and beside him his older brother cleared his throat before daring to speak. "I am Philippe René Favre," said he quietly, his southern accent giving way to fluent French only in the pronunciation of his own name. His brother immediately completed the introduction in the same way by adding, "and I am Jean Killian."

"Philippe René, Jean Killian, it is a privilege to meet you," admitted William truthfully, and it was all he could do to resist pulling the boys in for another embrace. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "Your journey has been long. Balin has prepared rooms for you, as well as warm baths for your use. There will be supper in some hours, but how are you at preset? Are you hungry?"

"We are," Killian answered immediately, earning a sharp look from his brother. "Hungry, and very thirsty. Is there wine?"

William smiled easily at his younger nephew, squeezing his shoulder affectionately before releasing them both and stepping back to allow Balin to come closer again. "You will want for nothing here, and that is a promise. If you will follow Balin," he adds, gesturing for steward to collect the pair. "He will bring you to your rooms and have your meals brought up to you."

"We can eat in our rooms!" Killian informed his brother in a sudden thrill as if Philippe had not been there, too, to hear of such an extravagant luxury himself. Immediately, Philippe seized his younger brother by the elbow to encourage his silence.

"You may eat wherever you wish," William commented in passing as the boys were led away by Balin and other servants, and Killian's eyes grew even wider in his excitement. Philippe reacted immediately by squeezing his brother's elbow more firmly before releasing him and quickly ending the conversation with a polite nod.

"Thank you, Uncle," said he, sincerely and calmly. In difference to his brother, his gaze was cautious, and he turned to fully face his uncle as he spoke. He paused in thought, observing William's expression with a healthy degree of suspicion before he respectfully added, "Mother is grateful for your generosity, and for allowing us to visit Nottinghamshire."

William inclined his head to acknowledge Philippe’s expression of gratitude, understanding the caution expressed by the young man. In two steps he closed much of the distance between them, and in a lowered voice he answered Philippe with a confession shared only between the two of them: "It is my sister’s presence and happiness that are needed in Erebor. Her gratitude is her own to keep."

Philippe looked up at his uncle with a puzzled and slightly alarmed expression, but in recognition of the private nature of his uncle’s words he remained faithfully silent. But before their mutual uncertainty with how to untangle it all became uncomfortable, Killian’s voice broke the silence.

"Hullo," Killian called to Leif without preamble, having made his way to the stairs with Balin already and unaware of his uncle and brother's exchange only some yards away. It had taken him this long to notice the unusually tall, fair-haired man who had not been introduced to them yet, and, unaccustomed to such exotic and fair looking persons, he eagerly asked, "Who are you?"

"Philippe René, Jean Killian, this is Sir Leif from the Kingdom of Sweden," William answered for him, and Leif bowed low at his introduction. "He is a visiting friend from Oxford."

At a loss for any other answer to Leif's bow and introduction, Philippe respectfully bowed in return. Killian, however, only frowned in confusion. "You only have one name, Sir Leif?"

Leif tilts his head in an expression of curiosity, but eventually he says, "I am Leif-Erik Gustav Oscar—"

"—he has many names, Jean Killian; in fact, they do not end," William interrupted again, the unimpressed frown he directed at Leif telling the man precisely how little he appreciated that display. "Leave the thrilling conclusion for a night when sleep evades you."

Killian laughed brightly with the ease of youthful innocence, but before he followed the tug of his brother's hand and Balin's patient lead, he turned back to his uncle quickly to say, "Uncle? Ma only calls me that when she is angry. If we are to be family, call me Killian and my brother Philippe."

Philippe turned quickly when he felt his brother no longer following him, and he turned his attention to William just in time to nod in agreement to Killian's request and to politely (remind Killian to) add, "Please."

***

Following their baths and luncheon, the brothers had been informed of the dinner party taking place in the evening. With this invitation, and for the following day’s excursions, both boys had been provided with a new wardrobe of clothes Balin considered appropriate. Kili was less than convinced. 

"I look like a fool," he whined, plucking at the embroidery on his new doublet. "Madame Marcus has the same pattern on her sofa, I'm sure of it."

"Then you look like a sofa, Kee, not a fool," his brother answered absently as he struggled with the abundance of ribbons and fabric of his own breeches. "Be grateful, brother—I believe I am wearing curtains."

"Or a skirt!" Kili laughed when he finally looked to see what Fili was up to; he threw himself into armchair near his brother and happily observed the futile struggle with rapt attention. "Do you think they always dress like this in the country, Fee?"

"Ma said nothing of it," muttered Fili, and he stumbled back in surprise when he ended up with several yards of ribbon in his hands and his trousers in a pool around his feet. They both stared for a moment, unsure of what happened or how to fix it.

"You broke it," Kili whispered in alarm, "what do we do?"

"I don't know, Kee!" Fili hissed and pulled the breeches back up over his hose, studying the design of the article intently.

"You think this is what countryfolk do instead of work?" wondered Kili just as easily, his natural curiosity overcoming the dread that still frustrated his brother. "Papa's always saying they avoid work whenever possible, but if they can't even get dressed without breaking things—"

"It's not _broken_ ," Fili insisted, and only moments later it seemed he has finally managed to thread the ribbon through the trousers again. "See? See, it's not broken, it is fine."

A knock on the door startled them both, and Kili jumped up from the armchair to stand beside his brother as they stared at the door in silence.

"What do we do?" Kili breathed, "I can't open the door, I look like a sofa!"

"My breeches are not even on!" Fili countered and urged his brother to go to the door with a jerk of his chin, "see who it is, Kee."

"Who is it!" Kili called without moving an inch, unrepentant in the face of his brother's meanest glare. "A _sofa_ , Fee!" he whispered urgently by way of explanation and gestured at the gaudy doublet.

"Master Killian, Master Philippe, may I be of service?" Balin answered from the other side of the door, "is the clothing to your liking?"

"Balin!" they cried in unison, and Kili hurried to open the door. "Come in, Balin, quickly: I look like a sofa, and Fee's broken the trousers already!"

"They are not broken," protested Fili, but it sounded unconvincing as he said it, even to himself.

To the relief of both brothers, Balin only seemed amused by Kili’s announcement. He turned to Fili calmly and asked, "Do you like them, sir?"

"Like them?" Fili peeped, then he quickly cleared his throat to politely say, "it is not a fashion I am accustomed to, but that is not to say I dislike them."

"Is it supposed to look like a skirt, Balin?" Kili wondered, and his brother threw him a murderous look in the brief moment Balin turned to the younger brother. But again Balin surprised them both, and he laughed heartily at Kili's sincerity.

"Yes, Master Killian, in some regards they are similar," said Balin with a happy chuckle. "Would you like something else to wear, Master Philippe? Something smaller, perhaps?"

Tension drained from Fili's posture with a great sigh of relief and a sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "I would appreciate that, sir. Thank you."

"Call me Balin, Master Philippe, no sirs here," said Balin with a kind smile, and with a small bow of his head he started back for the door. "I will see what I can find for you, sir, I will be right back."

"Any chance there might be some shirts with these new trousers, Balin?" Kili called after him hopefully, waving his arms a little helplessly as if to make his point more obvious. "Something less... _froufrou_?"

"Less embroidered," Fili corrected quickly, grabbing hold of his brother's elbow before Kili spoke again.

"I believe I know just the thing," Balin promised before letting himself out, his kind smile warm in his voice.

"Think before you speak, Kee," Fili whispered when they were alone again, though he looked more worried than angry. "We'll make papa look bad if we're not careful."

Kili blinked wildly at the thought as he became aware of what he had contributed to the conversation with Balin. He looked from Fili to the closed door where Balin had stood only moments earlier, gaping like a fish at his brother. "Fee! What if Uncle hears of this!"

"I doubt he will take it personally Kee, or whether Balin will even tell him. But from now on: think before you speak, please?" Fili replied honestly, and when Kili looked less scandalized and nodded his agreement, he returned to the gratifying matter of undoing his petticoat breeches. " _Merde_ , how do these come off now?"

Kili plopped down in the armchair again and watched his brother struggle with unreserved glee. "Did Uncle send you riding breeches, too, Fee?"

"All breeches are riding breeches if you sit on a horse," Fili grumbled, growing increasingly frustrated with the mass of uncooperative ribbons.

Kili beamed, shamelessly delighted by his brother's exponential loss of propriety. "Do not let Uncle hear you say that, Fee: I have already compared one of his gifts a sofa."

***

Erebor Manor came to life in the hours preceding the celebration honoring Sir William's return to the Shire. Servants bustled through the house polishing the floors and dusting every crevice, and slowly they wrested the bitter cold and darkness of winter from the great house by the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers and sixteen marble fireplaces.

Dressed and groomed to within an inch of their lives, Balin and the handful of servants left the brothers to rest or roam the first and second floors of Erebor with a promise to collect them for the party. But there were only so many heirlooms and paintings and tapestries that two restless young men could enjoy before mischief and curiosity began to steer their feet where they had not been given permission to go.

And that was how the Fili and Kili began to wander the wide, opulent halls of the ground floor, poking through the main library that could have passed for a museum, and the Great Dining Hall where servants were already setting a table with enough food to feed a small village. Following the sound of unknown voices in conversation, they found the drawing room in the eastern tower of Erebor; with only a shared glance between them the boys slipped closer to the wall and hide in the scant shadows near the doorway to listen in.

"Uncle Theoden will not tax the people further to support a militia: already families struggle to feed their children with the cost of Smaug’s soldiers, we will not force the people on our lands to give more," Éomer fumed, gesturing aggressively in the direction of Rohan as if to highlight the suffering of their people. "I cannot deny the justification or even the need for such measures, but it is not within our means."

Kili sidled closer to the door despite his brother's desperate looks, and with great care he peeked into the drawing room to learn more about the voices they were listening to. Only two of the five people he saw are familiar to him: their uncle, and his exotic friend from Oxford. Two other men were standing nearby, one very tall man with golden hair almost as fair and as long as Leif's, who was pacing the width of the room in his frustration. The other man was of comparatively slighter frame, and stood by the fire in apparent calm; his thoughts, however, lost in unseeing eyes staring into the crackling fire, seemed to be anywhere but in this room with them. A young woman was also among them, seated in an armchair near the fire, and despite her best efforts her stern expression did little to conceal her beauty.

"But to protect the people and the trade that supports them is necessary, brother," said she, and although she remained seated and appeared calmer than Éomer, her voice was no less forceful than her brother's. "If merchants are unsafe on the road to Nottingham, soon the people will have no means to speak of, and what then?"

In the mess of strangled frustrations being aired in the drawing room, a new voice makes itself known.  
"Uncle?"

Kili took an instinctive step back when five people collectively turn their attention to him, and Fili hurried out of hiding to stand beside his younger brother. But before any man questioned Fili and Kili's presence, William stood and introduced them, albeit stiffly, as his nephews. "Philippe, Killian, allow me to introduce Sir Faramir of Gondor, Earl of Ithilien; Sir Éomer of Rohan, Earl of Aldburg; and Lady Éowyn of Rohan."

"So it is true what they say about the Sheriff in Nottingham," Fili stated rather than asked after exchanging stilted greetings with his uncle's guests. "His taxes and his soldiers are unable to arrest a pack of bandits in the Forest?"

"I'm afraid it is not so simple, young sir," Éomer began, but Kili frowned at him in defense of brother with such a temper that it was Faramir, a more tactful man, who elaborated on the answer instead.

"Searching the Forest is no easy matter, Master Philippe: it is as vast as it is dense, and to find men who are familiar to its secrets requires more men than even the Sheriff of Nottingham could muster. Finding men who live in the Forest and have means of hiding in plain sight is more difficult still."

"Then what of the money? It must be spent," Fili continued, only momentarily appeased by that rationale. "If you say that people are struggling even to feed their young, the thieves could not be saving it."

Faramir frowned and fell silent then, and the three lords of Sherwood looked between each other as if to search for a satisfying answer.

"Whom are they robbing anyhow?" Kili asked no-one in particular, shrugging at the odd looks he was given for such a crass question. "We heard dozens of stories in Nottingham, but not one person had been robbed themselves. Was it not so, Fee?"

"If they are local men hiding in plain sight, they would not attack other locals," Éomer reasoned, "the chances of being recognized would be too great."

"We have been asking these questions for many months, Master Killian," Éowyn added gently, as if speaking to a child she did not wish to see offended. "They attack travelers and merchants on the roads to Nottingham."

"Then why are your roads in Rohan not safe?" Fili wondered, and though his question was simple no-one seemed inclined to answer him again. Beside him, his brother lit up in his excitement and hurriedly added: "If I were a bandit, a good one who wanted to rob more than one person, I would never travel farther from my safe hiding places unless I absolutely had to! But we saw the map, Rohan is twenty-five miles from Nottingham."

"That is a far distance to carry any amount of incriminating evidence," their uncle agreed, and he, too, turned to his three friends and asked, "but what of the money? Has any man accounted for the stolen coins and jewelry?"

"If it is being spent, it is not being spent in our lands," Éomer answered at last, and Faramir concurred on behalf of Gondor with a nod of his head.

"It is yet possible for them to trade the stolen items in Worksop," Éowyn commented almost absently, as if the thought only seemed conceivable now, and she leaned back into her armchair with a small frown. "The Master of Esgaroth has all but abandoned his duties there, and its people."

Kili groaned softly from the doorway and, knocking his head against his brother's shoulder, complained in a voice too quiet to reach the people in the drawing room. "How many dukes and earls and lords and masters does one forest need! It's _one forest_."

A delicate cough interrupted their quiet sniggering and announced Balin's presence from behind the young brothers, who jumped out of the way at once, red-faced with guilt. "My lords, my lady: dinner is served."

William thanked him and, holding Balin’s gaze a moment longer, he seemed to nod to himself before turning to his friends to say, "Please, let us retire this discussion. It has been many years since we last met, and I would resist the troubles of Sherwood one more night to enjoy your company if I could."

The small group accepted eagerly, and with a gentle nudge the brothers joined Balin when he turned away to lead them all to supper; behind them, the rest of their company fell into comfortable chatter as they followed to the Great Dining Hall where the household staff have filled the largest table with enough food to satisfy a king. Small game birds such as roast pheasant and hens accompanied heavier game and meats, flank steaks of venison, and both veal and pork cutlets. Roasted root vegetables and fresh rolls of bread sat in smaller bowls beside every table setting, and a platter of a wide assortment of cheeses, jams, honey and butter were brought to each guest in turn for them to choose anything they desired. Pitchers of ale and wine were brought out to the table lastly and directly from the kitchens, individual glasses being filled accordingly.

But in all the commotion and services, all the two brothers become aware of was their prescribed separation. With Faramir and Leif at his sides, and Éomer facing him, Kili gave his brother an encouraging smile from far across the table where Fili was seated beside William and opposite Éowyn. Less easily discouraged than his brother, Kili took this as a golden opportunity to badger the curious foreigner who had remained silent all throughout the earlier discussion in the drawing room.

"Do you have bandits in Sweden, Sir Leif?" He asked once he had swallowed his first bite of supper, and Leif paused his chewing briefly as if he did not expect the young man to address him directly or quite so soon.

"We do," Leif admitted soon and without reservation, "but in my country even stranger things happen in the woods: the law of the wild is not the same as the law of the Crown."

Kili blinked at him in great wonder, but his smile drooped into a pout when Leif did not continue. Undaunted, he urged the man on further: "How can the law of the land be different than the law of the King? Does not all land in the kingdom belong to him?"

"On paper, yes, but as it is in England many powers are delegated to selected nobility," said Leif, "and, as I see it, our woods are much older and more dangerous than they are here. People do not dare to live far from protected villages, or in such remote forests."

"How are they more dangerous?" Faramir wondered now, drawn into the conversation; Kili, delighted to have such an unexpected confederate, flashed him a broad, eager grin before turning back to Leif.

"Have you more faeries and leprechauns there?" Kili guessed eagerly; his brother, who even from a distance often acted as the substitute for Kili’s taciturn voice of reason, remained suspiciously silent and offered no word or glare in reproof.

"A great number of bears and wolves live in the wild in my country, and even moose and elk are known to defend their territories to the death; many men have lost their lives to the ire of a bull in the wrong season," Leif began, but whether by choice or by instinct, he gradually lowered his voice as he continued. "But there stranger creatures do us even greater harm: faeries, trolls and witches live in the wild, and worse still are the nymphs of the sea and of the woods, for their powers often seek to target our innocents."

Beside him, Faramir's expression turned thoughtful and grim, and he opened his mouth to comment, but since Faramir’s closed expression was unlikely to help Kili understand Leif's stories any better, he spoke up first. "Sir Leif, what is a nymph?"

"They are old creatures of the wild, young sir. Here I believe they are often feminine, yet in my kingdom such details are less clear. They are spirits, and many believe that they prey on our children as retribution for great sins against nature at the hands of man. The most sinister of these spirits we call Näcken: he takes the form of an old man, and in the darkest hours of the night he rises out of the waters and plays a most sorrowful, beautiful melody that enchants children even in their sleep. With his song he lures children to sea where he drowns them without mercy."

Faramir groaned quietly to himself, and Éomer tried to muffle a sudden snicker. From the head of the table William called for Leif's attention in a clipped tone. Despite the conversation going on around him, William was apparently aware enough of Leif’s storytelling to express his rising anger and irritation to his friend; it was only then that Leif looked back at Kili and noticed that the younger nephew was staring at him in unmitigated terror.

"Young Master Killian," Leif hurried to say, maintaining his composure despite his desperate urge to laugh only by the power of William's overprotective glare burning into his neck. "This danger lives in the waters of my kingdom, and your distance from our waters is much too great to risk Näcken's enchantment. Besides, in the forest you would only face woodland nymphs, mischievous creatures who rob men of their pride, never their children."

"Then what is it that woodland nymphs do?" asked Faramir innocently enough, and if the sight of his younger nephew’s returning curiosity soothed William ire, none of them commented on it.

"They are tricksters, and there are many of them often they are busy enough with each other that they care little for troubling humans," said Leif in a gentle voice, mindful now of the young man's expression as he elaborated on his story. "In my country, they most often appear under different circumstances, punishing the crimes against the woodlands in their own ways. But there are also some spirits who protect those who are mindful at night from beasts and thieves alike."

"Really?" Kili whispers eagerly, and he quickly moved a fresh glass of wine closer to Leif to help him through more stories. “What do they do?”

Laughing quietly at the boy's open excitement, Leif found himself less hesitant to share, and after a brief pause to think back to the myths he learned in his own childhood, he continued. "When a man kills a young doe or a fawn, they say Lîf punishes him by hiding his home from him and leaving him defenseless against nature's own predators, as the for had been to him. Those who defile the woodlands for material gain are often caught by the shepherds of the forest, spirits who leave such men and women hanging by their feet from the trees, and with such a fear of the woods that they flee the woods.”

“As a child, my father told me stories of a small band of spirits tied to my,” he frowned briefly, struggling for the word before settling on, “tied to the land of my father’s territory. He would tell me stories of Kvill and Legolas, who would protect travelers and villagers in our lands. They would put dangerous men and beasts to sleep wherever they lay in waiting to attack the innocent. Such men were often found still sleeping, and with a mark on their face to warn others of their nature once they woke and returned to their villages. Father always said such a mark never faded. Other spirits were more forgiving; Embla imprisoned thieves within the forest until those men and women returned the stolen property. Those who do not seek forgiveness were doomed to remain in the forest forever."

The comfortable, innocent calm that had fallen over the room was suddenly shattered by a series of loud banging on the west-facing windows, where the outline of a small, hunched creature can be made out in the darkness. Lulled by the magic of Leif's folk tales, the guests at the table and the waiting staff all jumped at the unexpected commotion, and all three lords instinctively reached for the weapons they were not carrying.

"Dwalin!" William yelled for the man charged with the defense of Erebor, but before Balin could stop him or Dwalin was at his side for protection, William marched to the western atrium of the house and strode out into the darkness in search of the unexpected offender.

His search did not take long. In the same place where the man had knocked wildly on the glass only moments earlier there now lay a body, unmoving and partially concealed by a great, dark cloak. In four great strides William would have reached the body, had two arms not wrapped around his middle and struggled to pull him back to the manor. Unable to effectively remove him, Fili hurried to stand beside his uncle, instinctively holding William back from the limp form.

"Get back!" Dwalin barked as he pushed past William and his nephew to personally inspect the body lying on the ground, careful to press the cool edge of his knife to the intruder's throat in case the man tried any foolishness as he was turned.

Around them, dusk suffocated the last breath of day. The forest, now dark and foreboding, grew into a new life where every gust of wind and every creature could be a set trap in waiting. Unaccustomed and unprepared for nightfall in the country, Fili quietly cleared his throat and tugged once at his uncle's doublet, urging him to turn back into the house. "Come, uncle, Balin said to let Dwalin take care of it."

"Is he alive?" William asked Dwalin, pointedly avoiding Fili’s appeal question where he could not avoid the young man’s physical intervention: where William tried to step forward, Fili followed, forcing the Earl to concede and retreat. 

"He is alive but unconscious," Dwalin informed them gruffly, sheating his knife to pick up the smaller body. Unimpressed, he looked at the two gentlemen and said, "William, get inside. I'll take care of this."

Safe within Erebor and its closed doors, Faramir released Kili and allowed the younger nephew to rush to his brother at last. Having sent for a medic, Balin instructed Dwalin to take the unconscious man into the first storey library, where he was laid out on a large leather settee. 

The guests all kept a respectful distance while William and Balin followed Dwalin to the library and hurriedly spoke of the security of the Manor and any medic they may call for at such an hour - all except for Éowyn, who wasted little time closing the distance between them. 

"Let me see him," she said to William, interrupting them without hesitation or apology. “If the bruises on his face are indicative of his injuries, it is not unlike that which I often see in Rohan. Let me see him.” 

William only needed to take one look at the stark contrast of the man's young, pale face and the dark blood staining his curls and crusting at his temple to answer her.

"What do you need?"

"Hot water, a blanket, clean cloth," Éowyn said to him before turning to her lady's maid, one of the scant few servants who had seen the bleeding head injury and had not shied away. "Sigrid, help me with his hands and feet."

"What can we do?" Fili asked her from William's side, fidgeting helplessly but unwilling to be any farther away than necessary. "Uncle, do you have any ice to spare?"

William opened his mouth to answer, but the groan that was heard first was not from him, and Éowyn gently brushed her fingers through the waking man's unruly curls as he struggled to open his eyes. "Good sir, can you hear me?"

The sound the man made was something between a whine and a moan, and while some color returned to his face, it was not a very healthy color. Fili and Kili, already familiar with such sounds and shades of green immediately hurried away from their uncle in search of a receptacle of some kind.

"What business did you have on private property!" Dwalin snarled as soon as the man opened his eyes, and only William's hand stayed him from physically haranguing the man.

"Robbed," the man slurred with great effort, "help Oin."

"Here!" Kili cried as he ran back into the room with a bowl that had held roasted potatoes and parsnips only moments ago, and Sigrid accepted it from him with a quiet thanks.

But Dwalin shouldered past Kili whose sudden entrance had interfered with the injured man's last word, and he all but shook him for more information. "Oin! Did you say Oin?"

"Help Oin," the man slurred again, his speech slower and weighed down by an unhealthy drawl as he struggled to speak more clearly, "bandits on road."

William grabbed Dwalin by the shoulder and physically hauled him away from the injured stranger, marching the guard out of the library as he gave him his instructions. "Take ten armed men, find your cousin and bring him back; if you find others who were attacked, bring them back with you. If you find them," he growls more viciously, "bring them to me alive. Should they refuse or fight back: do what is necessary."

With a clear command, Dwalin's shock narrowed into a deadly focus. Inclining his head once to express his understanding, he then stormed off to put his fury into practice. Without a word, Leif silently stepped away from the lords crowding in the library and fell in line beside the guard to join him in the hunt.

Eventually the stranger regained enough consciousness to drink a little and to be sick into the bowl Sigrid held out for him. Éomer strode farther into the room to stand within reach of Éowyn to watch over his sister and, more importantly, ensure that the man did not behave out of line. Faramir, close on his heel, was however snatched away mid-step and dragged out of the room by William.

"You said nothing of injuries," he seethed, holding Boromir's heir dangerously close so he would not risk being heard by others even in the relative privacy of another room. "You said no-one had been hurt, that these were only thieves."

Faramir shoved him off immediately, but he only straightens his vest and appeared no angrier for William's aggression. "If these are the same bandits, William, I swear to you that this is the first injury I have been made aware of: they have only robbed merchants until now, with no harm to persons or livestock."

William chewed over the information with forced care, trying to think of rational decisions rather than the struggling poor living on his land with little to defend themselves. "Raise Boromir's militia," he said at last, "we cannot let this escalate further, Faramir. What do you need from me?"

"You cannot dispense such resources William, you are not the Duke. And therefore, I cannot accept it from you," Faramir answered, firmly but not unkindly.

"Never you mind how I do it," William insisted, struggling to keep his hands off Faramir's person to shake some sense into the man. "What do you need?"

"While Boromir is away, I cannot enforce laws beyond the borders of Gondor," Faramir repeated, and though he was speaking calmly there was now steel in his voice, unwavering and unprepared to yield. "I am bound by my position, William, as are you. We cannot do otherwise."

"Can we not?" William growled under his breath, and with a final parting glance at his friends and the ongoing commotion in the library he marched out of the house to join Dwalin and his men.


	5. Rubicon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What now, uncle?” asked Kili. “How do we find the bandits when the Sheriff and all his men have failed?”
> 
> “By not repeating his mistakes,” answered William, “but first, we must know how well you ride.”

Following Sir William’s departure, and with the unsettling affair brought to their doorstep, supper was a short and uncomfortable intermission for all who remained. It was not long before their guests excused themselves and retired to bed.

Small teams of staff were placed on rotation to survey Erebor’s immediate surroundings for threats and for the return of the search party. Despite their safety and the surety that news would be brought to him without delay, Balin remained awake throughout the night, personally overseeing the scouting rotations and keeping watch from the library, where he could also offer the young maid company as she tended to the injured man.

It was nearly dawn when a servant marched into the library and announced the impending arrival of Sir William and all the men at the main hall of the manor. Balin sent the man away with instructions to get a meal prepared for all the riders, but had time for little else before the distant commotion at the grand foyer heralded the awaited return of the Earl.

“He is unharmed,” said Dwalin as soon as Balin rounded the corner in his haste to meet them and the older man whose weight Dwalin was mostly supporting. “Faint, but unharmed.”

“Those cowards would’ve been more dangerous had they let their horses fight in their stead,” Oin groused as he struggled against Dwalin’s support and swatted at Balin’s attempts to help him from his other side. “Stop -- stop it, the both of you! If you want to help, where is Bilbo? How is he?”

Reluctantly Balin stepped away from his cousin and watched alongside his brother as Oin stood a little straighter, if only out of wounded pride. “The Lady Éowyn tended to him personally and decided many hours ago that his injuries are not severe,” he explained, “He is not yet awake for long intervals: he tires quickly, but the lady’s maid has been by his side through the night.”

“Take me to him.”

“Dwalin, take your cousin to see his apprentice,” William interjected before Balin could take a step. “Balin, with me.”

***

“Balin, sit. Tell me, what has become of the villages?” asked William as soon as he was able to close the door to his father’s private library behind them. “The state of our people is indefensible, how has my father allowed for it to happen?”

The steward sat in one of the chairs without argument, running a hand over his beard as he considered William’s questions. “Many things have happened, William. This Sheriff has no interest in sharing power with the Dukeries, he--”

“Tell me why our villagers live in crumbling shacks,” William growled, “with unrepaired roofs and uncleared roads.”

Balin hesitated a moment, then cautiously began to say, “It is not my place to--”

“I care not for your place!” William bit out fiercely before his steward could continue, but he held his tongue at once, tempering his rage. He cleared his throat then, and repeated himself with forced patience. “I care not for your _place_ , Balin. You know these lands; you care about these people. Tell me,” he added, quietly. “What has become of the Forest?”

“It is not so simple, William,” answered Balin with a quiet sigh. His expression was grim and thoughtful, but even so he continued. “Or, perhaps it is. In your absence, the Sheriff has levied taxes against the people beyond their means; now, laws exist to punish those who cannot meet the Sheriff’s need.”

“What could they have that the Sheriff would want?” said William, pacing the length of the library in the shadow of the cold marble fireplace. “When their trade is unsustained, what does a greedy man stand to gain?”

“I fear it is not wealth all greedy men crave, William,” said Balin, “In fact, I fear we may not know what he desires most until it is too late.”

William continues pacing in silent contemplation, sometimes pausing to look out through the stained glass windows across the fields of his father’s estate, other times pausing to stare into the unlit fireplace.

“To think, one fortnight ago I could not conceive of a life returned to Sherwood,” said William softly, his expression muted in rueful clarity. In the void of his receding anger, shame and guilt grew bold, swelling vindictively within his chest until all he could hear were his father’s words, and all he could taste was regret.

“Five years in hiding, Balin, and for what?” he whispered at last, turning to face his old friend. “I cannot do this alone.”

“I see no need for that,” smiled Balin, refusing to indulge William in his moment of self-pity.

“Nor do I,” barked Dwalin as he shouldered his way past the door and revealed the small gathering eavesdropping in the hallway.

Balin regarded Oin, Leif, and William’s nephews in silence before he turned back to William, and not with little justified pride he asked,

“Now, laddie: where do we begin?”

*** 

The morning meal was shared in renewed spirits and felicity. The good news of Oin’s safe return and his apprentice Bilbo’s steady improvement eased the tensions of the night past, and conversations flowed of the months to come and of all the sights young Philippe and Killian must endeavor to see before they return to London.

“It is nearly midday, Frerin should arrive shortly,” Faramir reminded William as they strode out to the major courtyard at the gates of Erebor to take their farewells. The men embraced before Faramir shook hands with Fili and Kili in turn and said, “Should your adventures bring you to Gondor, I would be delighted to receive you in the White Hall.”

“Do not insult them, Faramir; why should they ride to Gondor when they could visit Rohan?” Éomer taunted from only some paces away where he sat upon his horse, Firefoot. Faramir only laughed at the barb and swung himself into the saddle, and with a tip of his hat to William and his nephews, he steered his horse to the carriage in which the Lady Éowyn sat comfortably.

Leaving his good friend and his sister to their conversation, Éomer steered Firefoot closer to William until they were close enough to speak in relative privacy. “What daft pursuit have you set your mind to now, William?”

“To what are you referring, my friend?” William smiled up with feigned innocence, “Rest assured, I only intend to be an uncle and a host to my sister-sons in the weeks to come.”

Éomer looked neither convinced nor impressed, and instead he said, “A childhood suffering yours and my cousin’s foolishness trained me well, William; but do not mistake my intentions,” he added then, more quietly. “I will speak no word of it to my uncle or to Faramir. But should you require my help, you need only ask.”

With a nod of understanding, William clasped his hand and thanked him. Éomer pulled his horse aside then to join the rest, and with a final wave goodbye, the small party departed Erebor.

“What now, uncle?” asked Kili. “How do we find the bandits when the Sheriff and all his men have failed?”

“By not repeating his mistakes,” answered William, “but first, we must know how well you ride.”

***

“These are the stables?” Fili could not mask the awe in his voice as he and his brother took in the sprawling two-storey structure, raised in dark, rich mahogany and gilded fixtures. Two generous corridors, wide enough for two horses and their caretakers to pass with ease, met at the center of the building to divide the stable into four equal quadrants, each buzzing with attendants and activity: from a distance they could see several horses being bundled up against the early spring chill and led out to the fields, clomping sleepily on clean swept cobblestone, whereas horses closer to them seemed to only be waking up to the sound of approaching stable hands carrying large containers of feed from one box to the other. An insistent breeze carried a faint earthy musk of hay and horses, inviting and sweet, and from every side light spilled through large, domed windows, warming the home of thirty horses.

In stark contrast to his overwhelmed nephews, William frowned. “Where is Nori?” He demanded of the poor stable hand who had drawn the short straw to greet the master with less than satisfying news. “He was to have the horses ready.”

“Apologies my lord, Nori has not been seen yet today. I've sent for him, he shouldn't be long,” said he as graciously as any man could. “Would the young masters want to meet the horses first on their own, sir?”

The boys looked at their uncle, then as one turned to look down the stable doors that lay open in front of them. 

They had seen horses before – they had even ridden before, thank you very much – but the horse peeking out of their boxes and craning their heads around in anticipation of the attendants approaching with their breakfasts seemed twice the size of the creatures Fili and Kili had known all those years ago.

“Are they all so… so,” Kili began, stammering a little at the thought of the size of such horses.

“Large,” Fili finished for him, trying to explain, “Uncle, when we – they were… smaller,” he finished lamely.

“Aye, sir, grand horses in every way" the attendant hurried to assure him, "nearly all in this stable stand 16 to 17 hands, though some measure 15. Hot bloods, sir, every one of 'em.”

Kili blinked at his brother, who, unaware of what hands or hot blood referred to, had both only understood one thing the attendant had said. After a beat they turned to the attendant as one and in one disbelieving voice asked, " _This_ stable?" 

"The work horses and most warmbloods--" the attendant began to answer, but William interrupted him before he could continue. "That will be all, Ori. We will not wait for Nori."

With a light touch to Fili's shoulder he bid the boys to follow him through the stables instead, leading them along a row of boxes where opportunistic horses snuffled at their clothes for food. 

“These are the horses kept for riding,” he explained as they walked, and, accepting a small bag of feed, treated a young chestnut mare to an early breakfast so she would stand more calmly for the boys. At first they both kept their distance, but once the second handful was consumed and their uncle remained demonstrably unharmed, they grew bolder. Kili, mesmerized by the mobile, velvety muzzle, drew the back of his knuckles down between the animal's nostrils. 

"Fili!" he whispered excitedly, "Fili, she's so soft!"

“Never seen a horse before?” a deep voice rumbled from the northern entrance, and soon the tall man it belonged to strode through the stable to greet them. "They won't burn you, no need for such caution.”

“In their own time,” William assured both his nephews and the stranger, a threat clear in the edge of his voice. “Are you Frerin of Gondor?”

“It appears so,” the man answered with an easy smile and casual shrug of his shoulders, “though it is curious that there I should be known as Frerin of Erebor.”

When the uncomfortable silence stretched too long between the two men, Fili looked from one to the other and politely cleared his throat. “I thank you, sir, for being here to teach my brother and me how to ride horses. Sir Faramir had only admiration for your work.”

Frerin’s smirk softened into a genuine smile as he turned his gaze from William to the nephews. “It is a pleasure to share my love for these creatures with you both, sir. Now, if your uncle allows it, let us find a horse who has already been properly fed and let these hungry animals eat.”

Without sparing another word for the man, William nodded in assent and allowed Frerin to lead his nephews away deeper into the stables as he trailed close behind, listening on in silence.

“Uncle!” laughed Kili some time later into a new conversation with the stable master. “Is it true that your horse is one of the fastest horses in Sherwood Forest?”

“In Nottinghamshire,” William corrected with a wan smile.

“Across open fields and through the woods no less,” Frerin continued, “many horses can gallop with great speed across open fields, but to also have the agility to ride at such speed through a forest as dense as Sherwood, that is rare indeed. Arabian blood of the father, was it not?” He asked William directly, but the lord, reluctant to address him in return, indicated the affirmative with a minute nod.

“Where is she?” asked Fili, curiously, “is she here?”

“Can we see you ride, uncle?” followed Kili immediately.

“She is not here, no,” said William quietly, though he attempted a smile for his nephews. “But we have many other fine horses; you are welcome to ride whichever you wish.”

“Then first, if it pleases you, sir,” said Frerin, to both the boys and to their uncle, “we will begin by getting you boys on a horse.”

Had William known the stable master had been literal, he might have objected. In fact, he would gladly have dismissed the man and sent him and his horse back to Gondor to never return to Thoresby again. But instead he found himself dismissed to observing their lessons from behind the fence of the small exercising paddock as Frerin had Fili perched on his own horse with nothing but a saddle blanket beneath him. Without bridle or lead, the mare needed no more than her master’s gestures to obediently move around the paddock. Kili walked beside her head as if to lead her, but as the stable master had explained, it was strictly for Kili to gain familiarity with the horse. The boys regularly switched position, getting used to mounting and dismounting and to stretch their legs frequently.

“How are they faring?” asked Balin as he came to join William at the fence some hours later.

“They are developing their balance more quickly than I had expected,” said William with grudging admiration. “The horse is truly remarkable.”

Balin said nothing, but silently stood beside the Earl as they both watched the younger men laughing with gleeful enthusiasm in the paddock. But where William was growing increasingly tense and contemptuous over what he saw, Balin watched the tall stable master with the familiar blue eyes and distinct nose with bitter regret.

“Aye,” he agreed quietly, “she is remarkable.”

*** 

In the absence of guests or any other unusual fanfare, tea was served in a smaller and more intimate dining room on the second floor. The great expanse of windows and numerous decorative mirrors around the room capitalized on the elevated advantage to give a full view of the northern fields of Erebor’s immediate property, lavishing the room with natural light and views of the private garden. Smaller than Erebor’s decorative flower garden, with its manicured arrangements and fountains, the private garden had been a sanctuary for the late Duchess. From his customary seat at the table, William could almost see her there again, comfortably perched on the cushions of her bench to feed the colorful summer birds around her.

Around him the conversation carried on.

“Do you think we can go back to the stables after tea, Fee?” Kili asked eagerly between bites, making a visible effort to remember his manners despite his excitement. “Maybe Mister Frerin will let us use the reins this time and really ride!”

“It may be wiser not to hurry, Master Kilian,” Leif suggested with an air of foreboding. “You may regret your haste in the morning.”

“Why?” Kili wondered, and across the table a little, choked off groan escaped his brother.

“Do you not feel it, Kili?” Fili asked in minor disbelief.

“Feel what?”

Leif chuckled at Fili’s momentary exasperation. “Even two years makes a difference, Master Philippe.”

“Evidently,” grumbled Fili, though even he could not stifle a laugh at the absurdity. “Everywhere important hurts, Kee.”

Once realization dawned, Kili winced in sympathy. Beside him, Leif was unsurprised and instead suggested, “Light activity helps ease the pain.”

“Ease what pain?” asked William as the words caught his attention and returned him to the conversation. “Philippe?”

This time both Leif and Kili laughed as Fili turned red with embarrassment; it did not take William much longer to understand. In an effort not to laugh, he quickly cleared his throat instead and said, “Would you instead like to join me on a walk before supper?”

“I would like that, uncle,” said Fili with some relief. "Will Killian be with Mister Frerin?”

“He is still here, isn’t he, uncle?” asked Kili immediately, “or is he to return to Gondor this afternoon?”

“Boromir allowed for him to remain in Erebor until you no longer require his tutelage; he may stay the full month that you are here, or leave when you wish.”

“I would not want him to leave,” Kili announced excitedly, “Minty is so intelligent! I never knew horses could think.”

William watched them in unblinking silence for a long beat, then in a monotone he bit out, “Minty?”

“That is the name of his horse,” answered Fili with tactful formality; if he noticed the flat look William and Leif shared, he chose not to draw attention to it.

“Uncle, if I am finished, may I be excused to return to the stables?”

William glanced down at Kili’s plate and, satisfied that the boy had eaten enough, nodded. “For your own safety, Killian, do not enter a horse’s box or climb any fences if you are alone.”

“I promise, uncle,” Kili beamed and he hurried to say goodbye to both Leif and Fili before he left the dining table. After a momentary silence at the table, Leif excused himself from the table as well and left to follow Kili.

Fili watched Leif leave with some resentment, and to his uncle said, “I know he speaks his mind freely and frequently, uncle, but Kili is not dim. He would not disobey.”

“He is a fifteen year old boy, Philippe: disobeying would not be a sign of foolishness, it would be a sign of his youth.”

“Even so,” said Fili with no less feeling, “mother and father have not worked so hard and prepared to sacrifice for a month so that judgment can be passed on my brother by those who have never lived as we have. He may not notice it yet, but I have, and I will not stand for it.”

“Who would dare?” asked his uncle in a voice so low it promised retribution. “Who has voiced judgment against you or your brother here?”

Fili blinked at him in slight confusion, then honestly said, “You, uncle. Just now, when he spoke of Minty’s intelligence.”

William huffed at the thought, his anger deflating and turning inward as he realized how his behavior might have appeared. “My judgment, as you said, was not of your brother, Philippe, but of Frerin and his horse’s name.”

“I do not understand,” Fili admitted quietly, but his tone was now more confused than defensive. “You think less of a man who has left his friends and family for a month in order to help people he has never met because of what he chose to call his horse?”

William could only stare at his nephew, mute, until finally he couldn’t resist the tug of a small, thoughtful smile. “You are so like your mother. And you are right. Come,” he added more gently, “there is much to say and little sunshine left.”

***

“Philippe, last night when Master Baggins interrupted our dinner and I stepped out to see what had happened, you followed me,” said William carefully as he and Fili turned down a graveled pathway from the central courtyard, making their way toward the westerly pastures. “It was a dangerous and a foolish act, and we had only met some hours before. Why did you follow me?”

“Because it was dangerous and a foolish act, and we had only met some hours before,” answered Fili with a small grin. “I had no intention of losing my only uncle to heroism on the first day.”

William’s curiosity faded into a pensive silence. “This is not heroism, Philippe. Had I not fled to university, the people of Thoresby might have had a better life. I am righting a wrong that is partly of my own doing.”

They walked in silence for some time before Fili finally said, “Kili and I grew up with tales mother shared of you, uncle. I want to know this man, too,” he added more quietly, “his motivations are of little consequence.”

“Philippe,” William started to say then abruptly stopped. After a short pause he said, “What I intend to do is tantamount to treason. I ask that you reconsider – and that you speak with your brother. You must understand: should you or your brother be captured your lives will be forfeit. Not I nor my father could protect you.”

Fili watched his uncle quietly in thought as they walked, then quietly asked, “And what of you, uncle? What becomes of Erebor should you be lost?”

“That was not what I said,” William started, but Fili only shook his head and said,

“And I was not asking for clarification, uncle.”

“If I am captured while father is in London, then Thoresby falls under the jurisdiction of the Sheriff,” said William with forced neutrality. “Balin may be permitted to act as steward until my father is restored to Erebor, but even so he can exercise less power than I.”

“And so you need an heir,” Fili concluded with a frown, slowing their pace to a halt. He brought his arms up around himself and crossed them in front of his chest, subconsciously seeking further protection. “Is that why you have welcomed us here?”

William could only shake his head with a rueful smile. “My father’s intent was to secure heirs in you and in Killian,” he confessed, “but on my life, Philippe, while I can prevent it Erebor will not become your burden.”

“Could Erebor fall to me without my consent?”

“It cannot,” William assured him, struggling to find the balance between honesty and comfort in his answers. “You would be the natural heir, but with your mother …removed from the family it will never fall to you unless you submit yourself to its inheritance.”

With his arms still crossed and his jaw set, Fili seemed less than pleased by the thought, but his words were sure when he said, “Then what must I do to make it so?”

***

“You did _what?_ ” whispered Kili urgently between bites, “without asking ma?”

In the dead of night and hungry even after a full supper, the boys had crept down to the kitchens in search of the simple meals they often had in London. A raid of the many pantries and cupboards revealed abundant cheeses and breads, all of which they pulled out between them on the expansive workstation.

Fili shrugged and cut off another wedge of white cheddar. Despite his confidence some hours earlier when he and Balin had spoken, now he suddenly felt the need to defend his position. “We agreed to possibly commit treason without asking either ma or papa, how could this be worse?”

“Let me think, Fee: maybe for all the reasons ma’s ever said?” Kili deadpanned, then instinctively reaching for the next bottle of port to help him through Fili’s revelation. “Your life is no longer your own – and what of the business? Will you no longer work with us?”

“I did this not to rule Erebor, Kee,” Fili said with a sigh. “If the Sheriff is either so cruel or so incompetent as to anger uncle so, is the risk not worth the potential reward that the lands should not fall to him?”

“What does it matter? The Duke still lives, could he not simply name another heir?”

A small noise from the servants’ dining table behind them startled them both, and they jumped to see Lady Éowyn’s maid standing in only her nightclothes not ten feet away. The solid metal candlestick she had been carrying now sat on the table beside her. “For boys speaking of treason, you speak very loudly.”

“We do _not_ ,” was Kili’s immediate, indignant reply. Fili instead hurried to shrug out of his dressing gown and step around the counter to hold it open for her. She watched him for a moment before wordlessly slipping into it, then walked back with him to join them both at the impromptu cheese spread.

“The same happened years ago in Worksop,” she started to say, “has your uncle not told you?”

“Is that the lands with a Master but no Lord or Duke or Earl?” asked Kili with a newfound and palpable distaste for such titles.

“Once that was only Esgaroth, but aye, it is now,” said she, lowering her voice, “life there… it was no life; we lived there for many years until da found a home for us in Rohan.”

Kili grimaced and sat himself back down on a stool with a huff, then held out one of the knives to her. “The white cheddar is not bad for English cheese,” he said, pointing it out on the large platter with blocks of various cheddars. While she helped herself to cheese, one pair of hands moved a plate of bread closer to her and another set a small cup with an unusual, bitter scent down in front of her.

“What’s this?” asked she, picking up the warm cup to breathe it in, but even as she smelled the cream and the spices, she had no awareness for its flavor. Kili made to answer her, but Fili held up his hand in a bid for silence. Instead of answering her, he said, “Try it.”

She gave him a curious look, then with a glance at Kili to be sure this was no malicious prank she took a cautious sip. It was thick, creamy and spiced on her tongue, more bitter than sweet, and in the moment she closed her eyes, her head swimming in the indulgent scents and sensations of her drink.

Silently she savored it, sip by careful sip, until she had nearly none left in her cup. With no effort to conceal her disappointment, she finally asked again: “What is this?”

“Do you like it?” asked Fili instead of answering, for which he was first only rewarded with a flat, unimpressed look. Kili, confused but still holding his tongue as asked, watched them with a little frown.

“Aye, for the most part,” she admitted finally, “I only do not like that there is no more.”

Kili snorted in amusement, easily promising, “We can make more.”

“It is chocolate,” answered Fili then with a pleased smile. “Our father makes it; it is our family business.”

“Chocolate?” she parroted the name with minor success. She did not seem convinced, but then much of her face was hidden behind the near-empty cup as she tried to have some more.

“Some families make beer, others make wine; we make chocolate,” Kili grinned, and finally lifted forward a small ceramic pot to refill her cup. “It is similar to coffee? Papa brought it with him from France.”

She smiled and thanked them, holding the full cup close this time to savor the scent. For some time they shared the simple meal in companionable silence, until finally Fili returned to an earlier conversation.

“You meant to speak of Worksop earlier, did you not?” he asked carefully, as if the question was unsuited to their current peace.

“Not of Worksop: of inheritance,” she corrected with a faint smile, “not a year goes by that people come forward and call themselves children of the Duke of Glenfolk, his rightful heirs. But once the line of succession is broken and no papers exist, only the King can restore a Duke.”

“Did the last Duke of Glenfolk have children?” said Fili, “It cannot have been so long ago, there must be some who still remember him.”

“Da’s never said,” she said quietly, pausing briefly to think back until finally she shrugged her shoulders a little. “I doubt he’d know, it was long ago and he says he was too young to be aware of such things when the Manor burned.”

What conversation and argument may have transpired between another pair was instead shared by Fili and Kili in one long, silent look, until finally Kili hung his head with a frustrated sigh. “ _Mon Dieu_... as you wish, brother,” he groaned, then hurried to add, “but together. If we do this, Fee, we do it together.”

*** 

The Earl’s nephews and the young maid were still sharing in a companionable meal when a loud series of knocks were heard on the kitchen door. Uncertain of whether they had heard a knock or only the sounds of the nighttime storm, they quietly crept to a small window to peek at the possible visitor. 

They watched as a dark shadow moved back towards the door, lifting an arm to once again hammer insistently before tables inside were able to identify the ominous shape as a tall, cloaked man, and like startled lambren they jolted back from the window in shock. Fili was the first to untangle himself from their huddle and quickly shoved at his brother and Sigrid to stay down out of sight before going around to open the kitchen door before the man woke the whole house. 

On the other side of the door stood Sir Éomer, though it took Fili some time to recognize the man hidden by a heavy cloak and nearly consumed by shadows. For a long moment, both men stared at each other in surprise, until finally Fili stepped back into the kitchen and urged the Earl inside. 

“What are you doing up at this late hour? Where is Balin?”

Fili’s mouth twisted in a wry frown, and he couldn’t help but wonder, “Why should Balin be awake at such an hour?”

“Peace, Philippe, I have no time for this,” said Éomer and pulled back his hood and shook some of the water off his clothes. “Quickly - I need to speak with William, and none other can know of it. Tell him to get dressed.” 

“Then wait here,” answered Fili after some hesitation. “Wait here and I will wake my uncle.”

Squeezed together into a small cupboard underneath the windowsill, Kili and Sigrid remained quiet and out of sight; unable to see the Earl of Aldburg, they could only guess at what he was doing in the silence, and if he would guess at their presence by number of mugs and knives scattered across the kitchen station. But if he did, he said nothing, and from what they could hear he barely moved where he stood in anticipation of Fili and William’s return. 

It did not take Fili long to wake his uncle, and, for safety’s sake, Dwalin. William was the first to enter the kitchen, and behind him Dwalin and Fili followed. Dwalin caught sight of Kili and Sigrid in hiding at once, but with a desperate shake of the head from them both and Fili’s discrete cough, the guard chose to ignore it. An Earl on the doorstep was a bigger inconvenience than the silly acts of youth. 

“Éomer, what surprise is this? Is all well in Edoras?” asked William in justified bewilderment, clasping the man’s hand in greeting. “Are you alone?”

“All is well in Edoras, save my own conscience,” confessed his friend quietly, but then he glanced in Fili and Dwalin’s direction before he continued. “Do you trust them with what you intend to do, William?”

“I know not of what intention you speak,” said William with tactful ease, “but in all matters I trust them both. What troubles your conscience, Éomer?” 

“My cousin’s will troubles me, my friend,” admitted Éomer quietly, and he cleared his throat quickly before continuing in a more confident manner, one that suggested a level of extended consideration and care in every word. “Had I only known one truth about Theodore, it was that he would have wished to follow you now, and he would have done so gladly and without fear, and faced what inane plans you’re chasing this time. I cannot take his place, though I wish I could, but what little of him remains I wish to give to you.” 

Suspicious of the Earl’s choice of words, Fili called for his uncle’s attention, but when his uncle looked back he had no words - instead, Fili tried to convey his distrust with a faint shake of his head. To that, William could only nod in understanding. 

“What is it that you wish to give me, Éomer?” asked William quietly. 

“Anonymity,” answered Éomer, though his eyes often now would stray to Fili with an unreadable expression. “Should you use the horses of Erebor to do what we agree you know nothing of, you will have little chance at anonymity for very long. Whether they recognize your horses or notice their absence in your stables, you would be found out. Our Mearas, however, are rarely seen. I offer these horses to you on the condition that you give me your sincere oath to destroy the beasts lest another man possess them.”

Fili and Kili, unaware what any of this meant, could only watch on in vague surprise as Sigrid gaped in shock and Dwalin scrubbed a hand over his face. William, whose tense posture was particular telling expression of disbelief, finally asked, “You mean to give me his horse?” 

Éomer nodded and reached past his friend to push the kitchen door open to show him what neither Dwalin, Fili, nor the two still stowed away out of sight under the window could see. “Mars,” he clarified, and even Dwalin, for all his stoicism, had to step forward to catch a glimpse of the horse. “One stallion and four mares. If they all survive your efforts, I require that the mares be returned to Rohan. Mars you may keep, if you can ride him.”

“I accept your terms,” breathed William at once, grasping at his friend’s hand blindly to shake on it, powerless as he was to look away from the horse standing only some yards before him. 

“Then come, show me in which of your fields they may roam safely, and we will take them there before dawn reveals us.”

Dwalin and William wasted no time gearing up and fetching cloaks against the downpour of the night, and within minutes they had exited the kitchen to follow the Rohirrim and their horses into the darkness. Fili, whose horsemanship was not yet advanced enough to join them, was left stunned and confused by what had passed. 

“Sigrid,” Kili finally hazarded once the door had been closed for some time, and one after another they crawled out from their hiding to return to their seats at the table. “What is a Mearas?”

“It is a breed of hot-blood horses bred in Rohan many generations ago,” she whispered, as if the words were too important to announce too loudly. “No man besides the Duke and his heir are to ride Mearas of pure stock. The best Rohirric horses sold are at most half Mearas, mixed with the Thoroughbred or the Arabian, or sometimes a light warmblood. Sir Theoden even refused the King, God rest his soul, when he requested a Mearas stallion.”

Kili blinked at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. “You can _deny a king?_ ” 

“Edoras has always been close to the Crown for their services,” Sigrid explained, “Sir Theoden himself was a tutor to the Prince before the King was deposed, God rest his soul.”

“Deny a king, but give one to my uncle for free?” frowned Fili, only growing more angry at his uncle for trusting such pretty words so easily. 

“Sir Éomer is a good man, Fili,” soothed Sigrid gently, “sometimes he is too brash or acts too quickly, but he has always been a good man. Mars has not accepted a rider since," she trailed off for a moment, then instead said, "Understand, Mearas are fiercely loyal creatures. Since birth Mars was only in contact with Sir Theodore, God rest him, but for much of this time your uncle will have accompanied him. Perhaps Sir Éomer believes Mars will remember your uncle as an old friend to his master.”

To that Fili had no response, and he sat quietly in thought for many minutes. Kili and Sigrid continued to speak of the horses and the history of Rohan and the Crown, how only years before the revolution the King himself had visited Edoras for a fortnight en route to the North. Still, it was not long before both Kili and Sigrid could not speak for yawning, and try as they might, Fili would not abandon the kitchen before their uncle’s return to retire to bed. Finally, Sigrid had to excuse herself and she returned to her quarters among the household staffs’ rooms. Kili, ever reluctant to leave his brother, pillowed his head on his arms at the table and napped with such contentment that he softly snored. 

It was not until many hours later that William and Dwalin finally returned and found both nephews asleep at the kitchen table, their backs uncomfortably crooked and hunched over as they leaned against each other even in their sleep for support.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this a try! Any happy and/or constructive feedback is tenderly loved.


End file.
